


The Crayfish and The Crab

by Diglossia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Canonical Character Death, Consent Issues, F/M, Intersex, Kavinsky is his own warning, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Misgendering, Multi, Murder, Trans Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 61,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diglossia/pseuds/Diglossia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Henry Cheng is fourteen years old, he is sent to Aglionby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, hey, Cheng.”

Henry looks up from his notebook. He glances at Withington, who continues droning on to the handful of students paying diligent attention.

“Kavinsky wants to talk to you,” Jiang says. He sounds less than enthused.

“Why?” Henry doesn't want to talk to Kavinsky. He wants to listen to rumors so he can forget that he is anything more than a boy receiving an education.

“Fuck if I know,” Jiang says, placing his head back on his folded arms and resuming his nap.

Translation: _fuck if I care_.

Jiang might not care but Henry certainly does. He was supposed to be a silent observer, Seondeok's eyes on the ground. He wasn't supposed to get involved.

That was before yesterday.

Not twenty four hours ago, one of Kavinsky's henchman caught sight of RoboBee.

Skov had smiled, wide and cruel. He didn't ask to see RoboBee, didn't comment on what cool new tech Henry had come across.

He _knew_.

Henry had planned on keeping his distance. And now, now, he's standing outside Kavinsky's mansion.

This, he decides, is not good.

* * *

 

It began, as all great stories do, with a problem.

In this case, that problem was named Kavinsky.

No, it isn't. That’s just how Henry would like this story to go. The truth is, this story began _before_ Kavinsky. It began in Ireland with a young man. It began in Korea with a young woman.

It began, as so many things do, in Hong Kong.

Henry’s parents met in their late twenties. His maternal grandparents had mostly given up on their daughter, who had yet to find a husband, who had yet to bring them grandchildren, who had yet to do anything but get a business degree and travel the world. His father’s parents wished their son would leave robotics behind and find a steady office job. They were both, in their own, special ways, disappointments.

And yet, they married. They had children. They moved to Vancouver, a small metropolis where their dreams would take flight, expand, and become exponentially greater than they ever hoped. They became rich. They became happy.

It was only when they had become settled in their life, comfortable, that their dreams started to fall apart.

After the birth of her third child, a daughter, Henry's mother began to hear and see things no one else could. She lost time, found herself wandering the streets of her upper middle class neighborhood, found herself being brought home by the police who said to her husband, "Sir, it might be time to seek professional help". Her husband didn't love her less but he was wary now. They were on tenterhooks even before he told her children to stay away.

He thought she might become violent. She worried that she might, too, and so she allowed herself to be admitted. It was a nice place, professional staff and spacious rooms. Everything would be fine. Her husband would take care of things while she was gone.

All Henry was told was that his mother had to go away for a while.

"It’s nothing serious," John, Henry's older brother, recalled their father saying, "she’ll be all better soon."

Henry was too young to realize, in those six months before and those six months after, that she lost her mind.

No, that wasn't it. Mrs. Cheng lost her self. Not herself. Her Self. Her being. The part that made her her.

Thrifty, ambitious, hard-working Mrs. Cheng was admitted into the hospital. It was a prophetic queen who came out.

This was not the problem.

The problem was that Seondeok had a taste for the illicit, the strange, the things that creep in the night and exist in the shadows. This interest she wanted to turn into a career.

And so she met the young man from Ireland, who was now a middle-aged man living in Virginia, and a working relationship was born.

They don't trust each other. In their business, trust leads you nowhere.

The man from Ireland is slippery. He travels constantly, here one day, gone the next. You can’t keep up with him. You can’t catch him. He is, as Seondeok and many others have said before and will say again, a scoundrel.

He's foolish, too, in the most unexpected ways. He has a family. He has sons. He sends those sons to a private school when they get old enough, an elite school where no one would look twice at a flashy, Chinese-Korean-Canadian boy with a gaudy watch and a gaudier car.

You ask why Seondeok would do it.

She asks, why wouldn't she? She puts no trust in the man from Ireland's hands. He has reneged on deals one too many times, promised impossible things he _can_ deliver but chooses not to. With one move, she has the perfect excuse to encroach on his home territory. With one well-placed card, she has a pair of eyes on the ground.

In case you haven’t figured it out, in case you haven’t guessed, Seondeok sacrifices her son’s happiness, his well-being, for material gain.

She sends Henry, all of fourteen years old, to Aglionby.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're making goo-goo eyes again," Cheng2 says. He's leaning over the back of Lee-Squared's seat, whispering in a tone far louder than Henry would prefer.

"Am not," Henry replies. He's doing nothing more than looking in Richard Campbell Gansey III's general direction. It's a school assembly. It's nine a.m. The auditorium is only so interesting.

"Hush," Rutherford says, eyes fixed firmly ahead. Unlike the rest of the student body, Henry half-included, he actually cares what President Bell and Headmaster Child have to convey.

"Yeah," SickSteve says. Henry still isn't sure how he got that nickname. He might have given it to himself. "It's completely normal. Private schools are teeming with rampant, burgeoning homoeroticism. Why do you think we have a curfew?"

" _Dakcho_."

"You want to have Gansey's babies?" Koh asks, late to the conversation as usual. He's doodling an anatomically incorrect walrus on Ryang's notepad.

"I do not want to have Gansey's babies, _Jesus Christ, Koh_ ," Henry hisses. Students are looking at them. Henry smiles placidly.

"He does," SickSteve says. "Eight of them. They're going to buy a house with a white picket fence and each one is going to be named Henry Junior."

Koh titters.

Because he is a model student and this is a school assembly, Henry does not tell them how little he cares for their teasing. They make a game of this, thinking it's a matter of sexual interest. It's not.

Henry needs to get on Gansey's good side.

But they don't know that, likely would not understand even if he could tell them why it is he's really here, so he lets them think he's embarrassed by their words.

Henry had not set out to make his followers like himself- namely, East Asian- but that was what he had done because it had been easy. Upon arriving in Henrietta, he gathered outsiders and model minorities to himself, took up living in Litchfield House with Ryang’s aunt and her collection of second sons, and generally made himself a perfect student. They were here to get an education, weren’t they? That was what they’d do.

There are now only two students who should be his who aren't. The first is Chun Woo Kim, who follows no man, and the second is Liuwei Jiang, who belongs to Kavinsky.

* * *

 

“Strange things happen in Henrietta,” the woman who used to be Henry’s mother tells him repeatedly. Seondeok cares about him in her own way, perhaps more than his mother did. Henry tries not to think about it much. “Keep out of sight but keep your eyes open.”

The weird thing is, he blends in. Henry’s so outrageously Aglionby the locals overlook him and those passing through, too. His foreignness so clearly has a purpose that no one notices what he does.

 _Why do you think_ , a nasty voice in the back of his head says, _you were sent here?_

There is magic in Henrietta.

And there is Kavinsky.

Henry doesn’t know who he got sent to look for in Henrietta but he hopes it’s not Joseph Kavinsky.

He hopes. He doesn’t believe.

Because who, at fourteen, deals drugs? Who, at fourteen, has followers? Who, at fourteen, organizes massive parties people actually want to go to?

Someone who’s been groomed for it.

As Henry has been groomed.

Henry met Kavinsky not one week into term freshman year and despised him on sight. Kavinsky was dangerous and cruel, and so, so familiar. He collected followers and admirers, druggies and hanger-ons. He was careful to cultivate a world that appealed to Aglionby and public school students alike. Come to me, see what I have, you don’t care for me? What do I care? I have what you want.

Seondeok never tells Henry to look out for Joseph Kavinsky. Henry’s no fool, though. He knows impossible things when he sees them and the most impossible thing about Kavinsky is time. His forgeries come too fast, new strains of drugs delivered overnight. Nothing is inconspicuous in Henrietta, yet Kavinsky moves product fast as light.

Fast as magic.

Be cautious, be careful, Henry's every instinct screams. Danger lurks in every corner and Kavinsky is a prince of shadows. Whatever Henry's mother asked him to watch out for, surely Kavinsky has a part in it.

Henry avoids Kavinsky. He is a dramatic, flashy sort, surrounded by rumors and intrigue. Henry does not need to be close to hear what he can do. Surely, Seondeok is only interested in the source of Kavinsky's artifacts, not Kavinsky himself.

Henry turns to local libraries and book repositories, internet sites and old professors. He asks Mrs. Woo about strange things in the area and she tells him about the Blue Ridge Ghost Tours, about the locals' willingness to overlook the slightly odd, about outsiders' fascination with the paranormal. He thanks her and wonders if New Jersey is the source. This sleepy, vaguely racist backwater could hardly produce the kind of wonders Henry's seeking.

New Jersey has psychics, astrologers, mediums, people more powerful than that sad collection of women on Fox Way. But New Jersey is far away and Kavinsky is here, and Henry has to contend that it would be easier to confront the issue head on.

As it turns out, it only takes ten days into the new school year to do just that.

* * *

 

Henry steps forward and rings Joseph Kavinsky's doorbell. He waits. No one comes.

Jiang said to come over after school. Preferably alone but not necessarily. Henry wonders now if that was a riddle he failed to answer correctly.

He rings the doorbell again. No response.

He is about to ring it a third time when the door flies open and hits the wall. A laughing, vaguely crazed face grins down at him. It is not a pretty one.

This, Henry knows, is Prokopenko. Possibly Kavinsky's best friend, possibly his underling. It is hard to distinguish fact from rumors. All Henry knows for certain is that Prokopenko is very tall, very ugly, and very _high_.

"Is Kavinsky available?"

Prokopenko laughs and slams the door in his face.

That...Henry did not expect.

He tries the doorknob and finds it unlocked. He steps into a three story entryway with a monster of a chandelier and a grand staircase spilling out into the center. Prokopenko is nowhere to be found. Laughter emerges from somewhere in the bowels of the house.

He follows it, feeling bold. Henry was asked to come here. He has been told Kavinsky likes to play games. Perhaps this is a test of some sort. Certainly, Henry is not afraid of a house or a Prokopenko.

The walls reverberate with the pounding bass of trap music. Henry steps over empty liquor bottles, trash, and what he fears might be a used condom. The hallway seems to stretch on endlessly.

More bottles. More trash. Was there a party here last night or do the Kavinskys actually live like this? Rumor has it Kavinsky's mother is a washed up Bulgarian starlet. With her fame quickly dying, she married Kavinsky's father and caused so much trouble he got her addicted to pills and sent her here in the hopes she would overdose. She's supposed to be beautiful, if you're into histrionic, drugged out messes.

To the left of the hallway, Henry finds a door from which the music seems to be emanating. He opens it.

"Fucking finally!" Kavinsky crows from his place on a black leather couch, throwing his arms out in a grand gesture. "Proko, I thought I told you to show our guest in." Proko tips back a nearly empty bottle of tequila and shrugs. He knocks on the bottom of the bottle to get at the last few drops. "Useless. Cheng, my man, what's good?"

Nothing. Nothing's ever good with Kavinsky. Or with Henry for that matter. There is only doing another's bidding and failing to do it right.

"I was told you wanted to see me."

"You? Nah. That bee of yours?" Kavinsky smiles lasciviously. He leans forward, steepling his fingers against his chin. "Absolutely."


	3. Chapter 3

"Well, this is fucking bullshit," Cheng2 announces, shoving his history textbook across the table.

"'In November 1950 hordes of Chinese "volunteers" fell upon his rashly overextended lines and hurled the U.N. forces reeling back down the peninsula,'" Henry reads. He looks up. "Are you saying hordes of Chinese, quote unquote, volunteers didn't hurl the U.N. down the peninsula?" He grins but Cheng2 doesn't seem to find it funny. He taps his pencil against the table- always a flurry of motion, that one- and scowls at the text.

"I'm _saying_ they're teaching yellow peril in an AP American history book and that is _bullshit_."

Koh leans over to look at Cheng2's textbook. "You know, the Koreans write way worse stuff in their textbooks."

"Our textbooks," SickSteve corrects from behind a chemistry tome.

"No way," Koh says, switching to Korean as he tends to do when he has something intelligent to say. "You're Canadian. Diaspora doesn't get to co-opt the terms of citizens."

"Boy, I was _born_ in Iksan-"

"Stop it, you two," Henry says and they fall silent. The argument isn't forgotten, SickSteve and Koh are still glaring at each other, but it will stay for now. Henry turns to Cheng2. "We could start a petition for new textbooks. Ones that don't rely on sinophobia to support American interference in a region for primarily strategic reasons."

Cheng2 smiles.

"I'd like that," he says. "A lot."

* * *

 

“So what are you?” Kavinsky asks. This is their second meeting. Earlier today, Swan passed Henry a note telling him to meet Kavinsky behind Whitman House during third period.

Kavinsky laughs when Henry says he’s half-Chinese, half-Korean.

“No,” Kavinsky says, running a finger up Henry’s arm. “What _are_ you?”

Henry Cheng’s first kiss was with a girl named Minhee on a warm Vancouver afternoon. His first kiss with a boy involves Kavinsky shoving him against a brick wall and shoving his tongue down Henry’s throat.

Henry doesn’t like it.

Not the first time, when he shoves Kavinsky off him.

Not the second, when Kavinsky laughs at Henry’s disgust and calls him pussy, pathetic, a wannabe valedictorian.

“I am more powerful than you know,” he tells Kavinsky the third time, clenching his fists. Kavinsky’s on the ground where Henry shoved him, sitting up on his elbows and looking at Henry not with anger but with interest. RoboBee’s just outside, awaiting Henry’s commands. It wouldn’t be fast enough if Kavinsky tried anything but Kavinsky doesn’t know that. “In terms of power, we are equals. This is not happening. Do you understand me?”

They stare at each other. It’s a battle of wills but Henry isn’t backing down. He can’t back down, not from someone like this, not when he’s been up against worse and prevailed.

A full minute passes.

Then Kavinsky grins, lazy and slow, and says, “Yeah. I think I do.”

* * *

 

Kavinsky isn't the only player on the field.

In Singer's Falls there lives a man. He is very much like Seondeok, a collector of impossible things and magical items. A family man, he has several sons, two of whom attend Aglionby Academy.

Henry has only ever had the one interaction with his mother's business associates. Since those fateful days, she has kept him from her work. He used to think she meant to protect him. Now he can only assume it took her this long to find a use for him.

Henry did not know any of this until his first October in Virginia when a sophomore named Declan Lynch clapped him on the shoulder and asked him to take a walk with him. As this was not a particularly unusual occurence at Aglionby Academy for Upstanding Young White Men, Henry thought nothing of it. Declan was a force of nature, a boy born for politics, the face of a campaign, the genius intellect behind an American posterboy. He commands a room, garners respect, and has a dazzling smile. He is beholden to no one. He is everything Henry admires in a man.

"Give me your phone number," Declan says and Henry is so starstruck he doesn't realize Declan is speaking through his teeth.

"Excuse me?"

"Your phone number, Cheng. Give it to me."

"Wh-" Henry rattles it off. Declan punches it into his phone.

"I'll call you," he says and walks away without an explanation.

The warm, fuzzy feeling Henry decides to call admiration follows him for the next two days. Gradually, it's replaced by confusion and worry as Declan doesn't call or text or even talk to Henry again.

Then, almost a week later, he receives a text from an unknown local number.

_Cheng, meet me at Nino's tonight. 7 pm._

Henry goes. He is giddy, overwhelmed by excitement. Declan Lynch _texted_ him. Declan Lynch _wants something_ from him.

As it turns out, Declan Lynch wants nothing from him. When he sees Henry, he shoves a package at his chest and tells him, "Give that to your mother." When Henry moves to protest, to ask what is going on, Declan asks, "Do you have a form of transportation? I'd prefer to meet somewhere less populated," as though this wasn't his idea.

Henry's respect for Declan all but disappears that day. Because, it turns out, Declan does answer to someone. He is the oldest of Niall Lynch's sons and Niall Lynch's sons are only as loved as they are unique, not useful. Henry comes to see only the crushing despair of Declan's existence, how, even at sixteen, he is already aware of his place in the world and how little his ambitions matter.

Now, every once in a while, Henry will get a set of instructions from Declan. _Go here_ or _go there; come alone_. There’s always a time frame. Usually it’s soon and Henry will get on his bike and yell out that he’s going for a ride and that will be that, no one will ask questions.

He’ll ride out to wherever Declan wants him to go because Declan doesn’t ask for things unless they need to be asked for.

“Give this to your mother,” he’ll say, handing Henry a slim package.

Or

“I can’t get her that item she wants.”

Or

“There are complications with the shipment.”

He never gives an explanation for why Henry’s a mediary this time instead of a buffer.

When Declan’s getting ready to graduate and Henry’s got a year more, Declan stops asking him to go places. He doesn’t have time to drive out, he says, just swing by the dorm.

What he means is he can’t leave Henrietta for the time it would take to have a simple conversation.

Henry doesn’t much mind. On the surface, Declan is someone he looks up to. He’d like a little of that polish and charm, fake as it might be, to rub off on him.

So he goes and five minute conversations turn into half hour-, then hour-long ones. Henry finds he genuinely enjoys Declan’s company, if only because he’s able to vent all the injustices the world’s rained down on him, up to and including being one of his mother’s instruments. Declan understands. Niall Lynch might be gone but Declan was never the favorite for all he was the hardest working and the one who had to carry the burden.

“I don’t know why,” Henry confides in him one afternoon, “it’s me and not John who had to come here.”

“Don’t you?” Declan asks, raising an eyebrow, and Henry does. He understands it just like he understands being handed RoboBee and being thrust into magical Henrietta with no protection.

There’s an expendable child in every family. There’s a child who can be expected to work and work and work, giving their all because, at the end of the day, they just want to be loved, too, even if they aren’t special, even if they aren’t talented, even if they’re nothing more than the lowest sum of their parents’ genes.

Henry knows, in some deep, hidden part of himself, that he isn’t _something more_.

It’s okay. He’ll just find people who are. He’ll surround himself with them, wrap them around him until their _more_ ness rubs off on him, until he, too, is worth noticing.

* * *

 

"Ryang, did you just take a picture of your lunch?"

Ryang guiltily lowers his camera. His  _camera_. It's 2012 and he's lugging an actual, goddamn camera around. A Sony Alpha A65, he will tell you, if you ask (no one asks), with a 24.3 megapixel APS-C sized sensor and 10 fps shooting. Henry has no idea what any of that means, nor does he care to know.

"No?" Ryang says.

"Oh, my God," Cheng2 says, "he totally did."

"Ooh, let me see," Koh says. A beat later. "It's meatloaf."

"It's art!"

"Meatloaf."

Rutherford can't stop laughing.

Henry smiles at their antics. How he wishes he could be as carefree as them. Instead, Seondeok has learned of his newfound acquaintance with Kavinsky. She wants him to explore it. She won't tell him why, of course, only that it would be best for Henry to grow closer to Kavinsky rather than watch from afar. It almost sounds as if she is praising him for taking initiative. Almost.

Tomorrow, he will go to Kavinsky's. They will play a game of words and Henry will leave having learned nothing. Seondeok will ask for a report and he will have nothing to give her, only the suspicion that Kavinsky has connections Henry doesn't know how to trace and doesn't want to.

Today, Henry will pretend he is normal. He will sit and he will listen to his followers fool around and wish he, too, had such an easy life.


	4. Chapter 4

"K, K, oh, God. Right there, right- ah, ah, ah!"

Henry winces. Skov grins, wide and knowing.

"They'll be done soon," he tells Henry.

Mattress springs squeak. A headboard thumps.

Henry's discomfort grows.

He had expected to be in and out, just a few words with K, a reassurance that he's not doing anything too troublesome. Instead, he was greeted by Skov, Kavinsky's henchman, and told to wait, K was busy.

Henry could have gone his whole life without knowing what his classmates’ sex noises sound like (And he knows exactly what they sound like, at least through bedroom walls. Prokopenko is the loudest by far, just horrendously so, although Skov and Jiang aren't far behind. Kavinsky loves dirty talk and Swan is just...silent. Henry wouldn't even know he gets up to anything if Skov weren't so vocal.). But he has to keep checking up on K, has to keep tabs on who's buying his dream drugs and where they're going because K’s caught the big names’ attention now that the Lynch patriarch’s done gotten himself murdered.

Henrietta, people are whispering, is a source. Little, sleepy, quiet Henrietta and the valley it's situated in could be producing another supplier.

The goods are different but they're still impossible and it's the impossible these people care about.

Which leaves Henry Cheng visiting a mansion on the affluent side of town and playing a game of words with a boy who could be his undoing.

 _I don’t want to keep doing this_ , he thinks. _I don't like him or how he operates. His followers are too close. They know too much. He rests his secrets in the hands of teenagers._

It's a pity no one cares what Henry wants.

* * *

 

Skov grins at Cheng's obvious discomfort. Proko has never been quiet. Cheng's presence is only making him louder. Partly, it's due to K's goading. Mostly, though- mostly it's because Proko's got an exhibitionist streak a mile wide.

They're definitely going at it for real, though. If he had a choice, Skov's fairly certain Proko would spend the rest of his life fucking someone. Preferably K but Proko's open to pretty much anyone. Shit, K's mom tried to proposition him once. Proko would have probably banged her if Swan hadn't realized it was some ridiculous ploy to make K mad, like that was hard. Dude is always pissed at his mom; like, chill the fuck out, she's not _Lilith_ (that's what Skov says. That's not what he thinks. But right now he needs Aunt Nadezhda thinking he's on her side and double-dealing's a skill Skov's been practicing for years).

Proko moans particularly loudly and Skov's grin spreads. Cheng's face has turned pink.

"They'll be done soon," he says, hoping to make Cheng squirm. It doesn't work but only just. Cheng's got more control than you'd think, considering.

"How long?" Cheng asks.

"About-" Proko moans in deep, guttural pleasure. "-five more minutes."

Cheng sets his face in a bland expression and sits back to wait. Skov uses this as an excuse to study him.

Cheng is something else.

He's as Aglionby as K is, which is to say not at all and perfectly so. He's the same strange combination of money, bravado, and foreignness, poised against the background of a shady past. Only while K trumps up his connections, Cheng downplays his. He gets away with it. People here care about the rumors more than the reality. Skov really wouldn't mind him so much if he would just get off Jiang's dick.

Cheng wanting Jiang for himself? That's fucking obvious. What isn't so clear is his interest in Prokopenko. If Skov had to guess, he would say Cheng wants to liberate Proko from K's clutches. He seems to think Proko's not here of his own accord, this senior hanging out with juniors, sitting pretty at K's feet, getting fucked within an inch of his life every other night.

He didn't know Proko before. Skov did, in the tangential way all Henrietta residents know raven boys.

Proko was a wild child with something to prove, the son of a Ukrainian "businessman" and whichever whore he was fucking that week. Don't look at Skov like that: those are Proko's words, not his.

You ever hear people say, he looks like he could use a cock up his ass? Yeah, that's Proko. Dude chilled way the fuck out after meeting Kavinsky. Not that K necessarily fucked him when they first met. Though it's K so who knows.

And before anyone goes saying K did something (and Skov knows, of course he knows, his parents and K's run together, have for years. They might, even, if anyone's being honest, be half and half but no one ever is and if so, it's a toss-up whose father is whose), K didn't make Proko that way. That will come later, far in the future from now, but no one needs to know about that little gift of Skov's, even if Swan, gorgeous, genius Swan, is halfway to figuring it out.

Whatevs. K and Proko fuck and they fucking love it. It's kind of magical in its own way, especially when one or both forgets they're not alone and the world shrinks down to just the two of them. It's a closeness Skov hasn't been able to recreate with either them, with Jiang, or even Swan. Skov's not jealous. K and Proko click. More often than not, Skov's just a warm body.

Still, he's horny and seventeen. Being a warm body far outstrips being alone. Also, he doesn't mind seeing the way K takes care of Proko, how he gives him what he needs, treating him like something to be used and tossed aside because wires got crossed in Proko's head and being used means being wanted.

K toys with Proko, giving him the bare minimum of affection, pretending to ignore him, pretending he doesn't care. He has Proko begging, whining, desperate in a way even Skov finds appealing. Only when Proko is on the edge, the very precipice of losing control will K let Proko touch him. Only then will he pull him into his lap and finger him while the others are watching, steadfastly ignoring Proko's mindless, pleading sounds, the way he squirms against him, biting his lip to try to quell the noises. _That_ will get K's attention. If there's one thing he hates, it's Proko suppressing himself, reining himself in. He _wants_ Proko to lose control.

This is why Cheng's efforts are so laughable. It might look otherwise but Proko gets off on this. Every second he and K spend together is one more part of a convoluted sex game.

Not to mention, there are times, primarily when they're alone but not always, when K will actually treat Proko like the integral part of K he is.

* * *

 

Barely a minute after Cheng's gone to speak with K, Jiang pads into the room, wearing boxers and one of Proko's oversized T-shirts. He groans and sits down next to Skov, burying his head in Skov's shoulder.

"The fuck is Cheng doing here?" he asks, Cheng's name a curse.

"Now, now, we wouldn't want to be rude to our guest."

"He's not a guest. He's a menace."

Skov ruffles Jiang's hair. Jiang wrinkles his nose but makes no attempt to stop him. His fingers work up under the hem of Skov's shirt and splay over the soft skin of his stomach. Jiang yawns.

"Tired?" Skov asks. Jiang nods and snuggles closer. "We could go upstairs."

Jiang shakes his head. "Here's fine."

It takes Skov a second. A smile blooms across his face even as hot disappointment fills his belly. "You want Cheng to see."

"Yep." Jiang smacks his lips. He looks tired as anything. Skov wouldn't be surprised if he came downstairs for the sole purpose of sticking his preferences in Cheng's face. Even, it would seem, when those preferences don't actually exist.

"What does Cheng want with you? Let me guess, he wants to bang you." Jiang curls his lip. "He does, doesn't he? He wants some sweet Jiang-loving. Cheng wants to do the nasty, the horizontal tang-"

"Fuck off," Jiang says. "I'm not his type."

"What is his- wait, seriously?" Skov looks Jiang up and down. Dude's, like, mega hot. Like, woah, hey, Mr. Cheng, I know you had a modeling gig once but Jiang here blows you out the water.

"Not even joking. He's into white guys."

"How do you know this stuff?" Skov asks. Jiang rubs his face in Skov's sleeve, which is super fucking hot for reasons Skov doesn't get, and ignores the question. Skov tries again. "So if he's not trying to get in your pants, what's his deal?"

Jiang blows out a breath. His black bangs go up and flop back down.

"Who even knows. He wants to recruit me or some shit. Pan-Asian nationalism or whatever."

Skov doesn't believe Jiang for a second. More often than not, he sounds like he's deliberately dumbing himself down. If it's to fit in better, Skov doesn't like it but he can deal. If it's to separate himself from Cheng's crowd...that's another beast entirely.

He's a secretive one, their Jiang. K's got secrets and Skov does, too, but secretive, elusive, those are fundamental parts of Jiang's personality. 'Course, Skov's not exactly his favorite person but the dude doesn't even tell Proko this shit and they're thick as thieves.

"Would it be that bad, joining him?"

Jiang groans. "Don't get me started."

Jiang pokes Skov in the stomach.

"Ow."

Jiang pinches Skov's stomach and rolls the skin between his thumb and forefinger. "Swan's right. You're getting chubby again."

“Wow, rude.” Skov is carrying maybe ten extra pounds around. Maybe. When’s the last time Jiang went running? "I could bench-press you right now."

Jiang rolls his eyes. He presses a quick kiss to Skov's shoulder before getting to his feet. "I changed my mind. Let's go upstairs."

"I thought I was 'getting chubby again'."

The look Jiang gives him is not impressed. "I want someone to fuck me. K's busy, Proko's too tired, and you know Swan's not going to do it."

"He has a strap-on."

"Yeah, but that's for Proko. It's you or no one."

"Wow, Jiang. I am just, so flattered by your kind words."

"Shut up," Jiang says but his eyes are smiling. He tugs on Skov's hand.

"What?" he asks when Skov doesn't immediately follow.

Skov shakes his head. "Nothing."

Two years of rooming with the guy and Skov still doesn't get Jiang.

* * *

 

“Oh my god,” Jiang says when Henry passes him on his way to the bleacher where Ryang is sitting. “Why are you even here? Go away.”

Jiang’s got Henry's measure and he's not a fan. It’s Seondeok who told Henry if you can't be the best, specialize. Someone must have taught Jiang that message, too.

It’s not like Kavinsky's and Henry's kingdoms don't intersect. Henry is under the impression Cheng2 and Ryang get their pot from Jiang. He is also under the impression Jiang doesn't like him very much, though he can't fathom why. Henry is a very likeable person. People tell him so.

Henry doesn't know what he did to the guy. He might have said he would be much better for Jiang than Kavinsky a time or ten. That is common knowledge, though, and shouldn't be held against Henry. Jiang has potential. Kavinsky is going to burn out by twenty-five, if he even gets that far.

Jiang is a source of contention between them, a smug piece for Kavinsky to hold over his head. At some point, everyone comes to Kavinsky. Most take what they want and leave but some stay and among those is one who should be in Henry’s fold.

Henry isn't a natural leader and he knows it. He lacks the charisma of Gansey and Kavinsky, of Declan Lynch and Dan Carruthers. Henry is someone people will follow but only if he proves himself worthy of following.

He isn’t, to be honest, sure if he is even an extrovert. Perhaps he is merely an introvert masquerading as one, using his family’s power and his personal drive to make people believe he is something else.

But, yes, Henry wants Kim and Jiang, if only for other people to look and say, Henry Cheng’s cornered the market.

Not to mention, Jiang is smart. He doesn't care about school but he could. He could still get high and drunk with Henry. He doesn't need Kavinsky for that.

“What if I want him?” Jiang shot back the last time Henry brought it up, like he knew exactly how much potential he was wasting and he just didn't care. As though Kavinsky had something to offer that Henry didn't.

As though Jiang knew what Henry's other followers didn't: they would never be his confidantes or friends, not really.

As Henry said, smart. Just not smart enough to secure a future for himself worth having.

“I come to every game,” Henry says. “How did it happen that you are here?”

“Skov,” Swan says. He looks amused. The look isn't directed at Henry or Jiang but Skov himself, who is standing on the pitch, shading his eyes and smirking up at them.

Henry should have remembered Skov was on the team. He gets yellowcarded every other game for rough play. Swan attends practically every game, a lone, scowling figure in the stands. Henry should have remembered these things but he didn't because Henry has other things to think about. When he doesn't have to deal with Kavinsky, he prefers to pretend he and his inner circle don't exist.

With the exception of Jiang, naturally.

“K’s not here,” Swan says, not bothering to look at Henry.

“Did he get himself banned?” Henry asks hopefully. He has heard stories about the first game of the season getting a little too rough and someone pulling a switchblade on a member of the away team but he hadn’t thought those rumors were true.

“No,” Jiang snaps. Swan shifts marginally closer. Jiang relaxes. “That was Proko. Kavinsky just thinks soccer’s boring.”

“Which it is,” he adds, looking at Swan pointedly.

Swan shrugs.

If Kavinsky isn't here, Henry has nothing to worry about or watch out for. He goes on his way.

The match goes long into overtime. They lose but it's close and Henry claps Koh on the shoulder in solidarity before leaving. He’ll get a ride back to the dorms with Ryang. He always does.

* * *

 

Henry checks his phone. Mrs. Woo won't be happy about this, but Kavinsky hasn't been to class for days and Henry needs to check up on him. Even public school kids know his name now.

Henry slips downstairs nearly silently and out of the house. He starts his bike as quietly as possible (no quieter than normal) and drives slowly out of the driveway and down the street.

It isn't far to Kavinsky's subdivision. The streets are quiet, empty, at this time of night. In the distance, Henry hears pounding bass and the squeal of tires.

Outside of Kavinsky's mansion, a car is idling. Every so often, Henry thinks about calling the police and telling them to do a raid. It gives him a sort of sick satisfaction, thinking about K ending up in a juvenile detention center.

One of the car's tinted windows rolls down, revealing the passenger's face.

Henry stops breathing. He trembles in fear.

Laumonier. Laumonier is at Kavinsky's mansion.

He can't move. He can hardly breathe. He- he needs water, ice water, and- and-

A pale hand grabs Henry's arm. It yanks him around the side of Kavinsky's house. Prokopenko holds a finger to his lips and Henry nods, wide-eyed.

Laumoniers' car pulls out of the driveway. Only once it's vanished down the street does Henry breathe easy.

"Come on," Prokopenko says. He taps something into his phone, then tugs Henry through a side door.

Henry expects to be taken to Kavinsky. Instead, he finds himself standing before his dogs.

They're arrayed across various pieces of furniture, Jiang crouched on a footstool, Swan draped elegantly over a couch, Skov lounging indolently in a movie theater seat. Prokopenko moves to sit on the floor near Swan. He brings a knee up to his chest, folds his arms over it, and looks at Henry expectantly.

"How long," Skov asks, examining his nails, "would you say you've known Laumonier?"

"Who is that?" Henry asks.

Jiang snorts. Swan takes a drag of his cigarette.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a terrible liar?" Skov asks. "Because you are the worst. Proko?"

“He knew who they were,” Prokopenko says.

“No,” Henry lies.

Jiang gives him a calculating look.

“You take after your mother,” Skov says, grinning when Henry looks at him, startled. “Oh, did you really think we didn’t know? When were you planning on letting K in on that little tidbit?”

 _Never_ , Henry thinks.

“Not all Koreans are related,” he says. Defuse, deflect, demure. His mother's secrets are worth too much for Henry to act foolishly. “To think so is pure racism."

“Wasn’t talking about looks,” Skov says, “but thanks for confirming.”

Henry's on the defensive now. He looks from hound to hound, searching for an answer to what this is.

"Prokopenko," he settles on, only to lose his words.

Prokopenko's head pops up. He looks confused. This is an audience and, in those, he rarely takes center stage.

But who is this an audience with? Skovron's taken point but Henry's under no illusions Swan is under his control or Jiang. They bow to Kavinsky, not him.

"You are a pretty bad liar," Prokopenko says. He looks up at Swan, who runs a soothing hand over his hair, then back at Henry. "You recognized those men."

"What does it matter if I did?"

"He takes after her," Skov says to Jiang.

"He does," Jiang agrees.

Henry never quite understands Kavinsky's followers' dynamics. Much of the time, they're heat and fire, power struggles and biting words. But then there's times like this, when they are so clearly on the same page, four minds working as one towards an unknown purpose.

"I wonder what Laumonier would have to say about that bee of yours. Laumonier's in the market for oddities. How much do you think they'd pay for your toy?"

"You're not interested in money," Henry asserts.

Skov has a way of smiling without conveying any positive emotion. "Is that right? Tell me, Cheng, what it is I'm interested in."

Swan still hasn't said anything. As Henry watches, he blows cigarette smoke in Prokopenko's upturned face. Prokopenko barely reacts, just closes his eyes and shudders at the insult. Swan smirks.

"Laumonier means nothing to me," Henry tells Skov.

Jiang's face twists.

"I don't believe you," Skov replies.

Henry's about to say, _I don't need you to_ when the door to the rest of the house bangs open.

"What's this?" Kavinsky asks. "Bitch, move," he tells Skov, who obeys without hesitation. Kavinsky settles into his seat, turning the chair into a throne. Prokopenko scrambles to his side. "Cheng, the fuck you doing here?"

"Cheng was just telling us how he became acquainted with your latest buyers," Skov says.

Henry would be loathe to admit it but he's glad for Kavinsky's arrival. Kavinsky is predictable, whereas Skov is anything but.

Of course, if Henry took the time to get to know the guy, he might find that assertion completely untrue, but who wants to get to know Skov? His own friends can barely stand him.

"Was he really." Kavinsky ignores Prokopenko, who's all but begging for attention. "Jiang, come here." He pats the arm of the movie theater seat. Jiang comes, expressionless, and Henry can't help thinking Kavinsky's doing this to show him off. _Look, I still have one. Your collection isn't complete._

Kavinsky smiles wide and lascivious at Henry. It's as though he really does know what Henry's thinking. He rubs a knuckle across Jiang's cheekbone. Henry's seen him do this with Prokopenko, who will arch like a cat into its owner's touch, languid and pleased. Jiang stares straight ahead.

Henry grits his teeth.

* * *

 

“How do you do it?” he asked Jiang one day. There should have been a rapport there, Chinese and Chinese, but Jiang looked him up and down and it was dismissive, it was _you’re toeing the line and I’m getting out of here_. They both are but Aglionby will be part of Henry’s resume forever and a footnote in Jiang’s increasingly fucked up life. “Be yourself?”

“Who the fuck said I am myself?” Jiang asked. He was high as shit and Henry was drunk enough to be philosophical and they should not have been associating but they were and it wasn't the Chinese that connected them, it was Kavinsky.

Henry wanted, still wants, that kind of power, that freedom.

But he didn't have it so he waxed philosophical to an increasingly disinterested Jiang while Skov and Swan flirt-fought in the background. He felt Kavinsky's and Prokopenko’s eyes on him, and he wanted to say, _Mom, I found something_.

Would she, he wondered, let him go home if he told her about Kavinsky? Could he leave the States, head back to his own country, if he spilled Declan Lynch's secrets?

Just get him out of here. Just let him _leave_.

* * *

 

"And what does Seondeok's son have to say about my buyers?"

Henry has good enough breeding (read: training) not to react to the name drop.

"Nothing," Henry says. "They're dangerous." _So are you._

Kavinsky laughs.

Henry swallows. Someone murdered Niall Lynch twelve months ago. Who's to say it wasn't Laumonier? Years ago, they kidnapped a child because Niall Lynch backed out of a deal. These men are ruthless.

"You're no fun today, Cheng. Say your piece and go." He wags dismissive fingers in Henry's direction. Jiang's eyes meet Henry's for a furtive second.

"I'm here to offer a trade," Henry says. It's not a complete lie but Henry will never tell K he's here because Seondeok wants to keep tabs on a supplier her competition has expressed interest in. Seondeok has no use for mood-altering drugs; however, she knows people who do. Henry can't tell her specifically who Kavinsky's dealing to, not yet. He has an idea. If he could just win Jiang over... "An artifact from someone like you."

Kavinsky's hand stills on the curve of Jiang's jaw. His eyes narrow. He leans forward in his seat. "And how would you go about getting that sort of thing?"

"That information's not up for discussion."

"That information's not up for discussion," Skov repeats in a nasty tone of voice. Prokopenko snickers.

"In exchange for...?"

Declan Lynch wants Kavinsky to stay away from his brothers. His middle brother, Ronan, has gone off the deep end in the wake of their father's death. They say he's the one who found the body.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Henry asked Declan the last time they met.

"I have no desire to be seen with him" was what Declan said. What Declan meant was he had secrets Kavinsky would have no trouble pulling out of him should his name be attached to this request.

"It's nothing, really," Henry says now. "You'd just have to stay away from a few choice classmates. Say, Ronan and Matthew Lynch."

Skov barks a laugh and even Swan smiles thinly.

Kavinsky's teeth glitter. "Not a chance. We're done here, Cheng. Get out."

Henry gives one last glance towards Jiang. He tries to communicate _I can get you out of this_ with his eyes. He wills Jiang to understand.

Jiang's eyes remain empty.

Henry leaves.

* * *

 

Kavinsky presses his teeth to Jiang's neck, the closest he'll ever get to kindness, and the tension in Jiang unwinds.

"I hate him so much," Jiang mumbles, curling into K, that reckless, solid presence.

"He's a fucking tool," Skov says, getting up and cracking his back.

"You know he is, though, right?" Swan says. "A tool."

Skov grins. "I know. Yo, i'm fucking starving. Anyone else hungry?" He heads in the direction of the kitchen, Swan a step behind.

Kavinsky looks down at Jiang, who's pressed his face into the crook of Kavinsky's neck. Proko lays cool fingers on Jiang's cheek for a moment before he, too, leaves.

"You did good today, babe," Kavinsky says. Then he draws away, never content to stay still for long.

Jiang shakes off the disappointment. It was stupid to think Kavinsky would stay. He's sharp edges and incendiary devices, not pillows and blankets.

Jiang flops down in the movie seat, still warm from K's body heat.

At least Jiang has his words to hold onto. _You did good today, babe._

Are these the words of a terrible person? Maybe.

Kavinsky has his flaws but at least he doesn't set out to use Jiang. Jiang poses no definite advantage to him, nothing to grasp onto and exploit.

The same cannot be said about Cheng.

Besides, Jiang relates more to these ex-Soviet bloc boys than Mr. Democracy. Cheng wants to talk about the inherent irony of democratic socialism. Kavinsky couldn't give less of a shit. Swan's home country is technically communist. Prokopenko probably doesn't know what socialism is.

Skov might want to debate it but Skov is a strange, strange creature.

Regardless, Jiang's not interested in whatever Cheng's looking for him to be. He sees how the guy treats his crew, how disdainful he is towards Skov, how patronizing towards Prokopenko, how utterly indifferent towards Swan.

Jiang's not saying Kavinsky doesn't use people. But he doesn't surround himself with those people day in and day out. He doesn't make it clear he'd rather be with someone else. Right?

Right.

Maybe the point is stupid. What Jiang's getting at is he's happy where he is. He doesn't want to tag along with the other Asian kids, having nothing in common but their origins and barely that.

It's difficult to put all this into words. So he tells the others he hates Cheng, he despises him, he'd never join his side.

He wouldn't _leave_ , not when Cheng is his only other option.


	5. Chapter 5

"Insulin," Ryang tells Doc Mac. It's their codeword, a convenient excuse for the bureaucratic nonsense he has to go through just to use a toilet.

"Sit down," the nurse says. "If you need to use the bathroom, you'll have to wait. It's occupied."

More codewords. _We're not alone. If_ , Ryang thinks sourly, _you want to maintain your ruse, you'll have to play along._

He sits and he waits, staring at the medical charts he has memorized by now.

"Have you been seeing your specialist?" Doc Mac asks. They're hedging out of codeword territory.

"Yes," Ryang says, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "They upped the dosage again."

"And how is it making you feel?"

There's the sound of water running.

"Fine." In truth, it makes him feel _alive_. He's finally getting something _done_. "A little tired."

"That's to be expected." Doc Mac smiles reassuringly at him. Ryang doesn't smile back.

The bathroom door opens. Ryang's face is a neutral mask, belying the pounding of his heart. Everyone knows he's "diabetic". Nothing he or Doc Mac have said outright contradicts that fact.

Then he sees who it is and the apprehension vanishes.

"Feeling better?" Doc Mac asks Swan. Ryang doesn't know what he uses as a first name and he's not about to ask, either.

Swan's eyes flick to Ryang. He's good at this game, doesn't even blink. Nothing in his expression reveals that they have back-to-back appointments at the same doctor's office the first Tuesday of every month.

"Hi, Swan," Ryang says.

Swan doesn't deign to reply. He talks quietly with Doc Mac for a few moments while Ryang rereads a chart about the importance of vaccination. "Get your flu shot today!" it reads at the bottom. The poster's faded and curled at the edges, likely as old as Ryang himself. He curls and uncurls his fists. He can wait. Five more minutes is nothing.

Ten seconds after Swan's left the nurse's office, Ryang steps into the bathroom.


	6. Chapter 6

When Ryang was little, the tabloids loved him. Jenny Woo's youngest was a sensation, so cute in dresses and bows, everything pink and glittery and tulle. When he was older and had more choice in his clothes, the descriptions changed. _Look at little Maria_ , the magazines said, _growing up so fast, such a tomboy! A powerful inspiration, pushing the limits of what it means to be a girl!_

The photographers loved the pictures. His mother loved the attention. His father, a fitness trainer living in his wife's shadow and the main parental figure in Ryang's life (outside the endless stream of nannies, natch), loved the child.

Everything changed after the Gemini Awards.

Ryang had never liked dresses. He hated the sequins and the glitz, the cameras in his face. He didn't _want_ to wear a dress, so, when he stepped out on the red carpet, he wasn't wearing one.

It was a wonderful tux, steel grey with a white dress shirt and a real bowtie. Ryang loved it instantly. His father, as he tied the bowtie for him, told Ryang he practically glowed.

The paparazzi couldn't get enough. "Maria, Maria," they called, "smile for the cameras!"

"It's a very powerful look," Ryang remembers his mother saying, her face suggesting nothing of the hour-long fight that had led to this decision. "Maria is redefining women's fashion."

Maria, Maria, Maria. Ryang hated that name. If his mother were around more, she would know she was the only one who insisted upon it.

The night could have gone well. It could have been nothing more than a five minute interval in everyone's tomorrow as they flipped through People Magazine.

The folly was in letting the news correspondents talk to Ryang.

"Maria, Maria," Nancy Petersen said, bringing her microphone to Ryang's face. "Tell us about your look."

"It's a Cristoforo Cardi. And my name," Ryang had said, "is Marcus."

* * *

 

The papers blew up.

MARIA RYANG'S BOY CLOTHES CHIC!

 _MATERNITY WARD_ 'S JENNY WOO: MARIA "WANTS TO BE CALLED MARCUS"

SURPRISE! JENNY WOO'S SECRET SON

IS JENNY WOO FORCING HER DAUGHTER TO DRESS LIKE A BOY?

INSIDE JENNY WOO'S HOME LIFE

There were interviews, photographers crawling over their back fence, congratulatory letters, death threats, bombs. They had to move more than once.

"Is it a phase?" Ryang's mother asked his nanny. "Is she just acting out?"

Maria, she, _her_. Try as she might, Ryang's mother couldn't seem to remember.

"Maria," she would say, "why do you wear such baggy clothes?"

"Maria, you should do something with your hair."

"Maria, come to this movie release. The public wants to see you."

She just. Couldn't. Seem. To. Get. It.

* * *

 

Ryang's father never cared what Ryang wore or how he did his hair. He wanted his son to be happy and healthy. If that meant board shorts and swim trunks, so be it. Paul Ryang had led a fairly modest life before he met his wife. He did not see the need for the media to be at his door and he did not read news rags, anyhow. Ryang's happiness was far more important to him than what any reporter might say.

That isn't to say Jenny Woo did not love her children. She did. She simply didn't understand them, not the daughter by her first marriage, who had gone on to be an alternative lingerie model and largely forgotten, nor the child by her second, who made equally difficult choices and who the media could not seem to overlook. Jenny had hoped one of her children might mirror her success. Increasingly, it looked like neither would. That was a hard pill for any parent to swallow.

Eventually, though, she did swallow it. Hannah's ever-increasing number of piercings and tattoos was raking in thousands. Most of the money came from niche videos and not the catwalk but money was money and Hannah's audience loved her. She was twenty-four, a success in her own right.

It was time, Jenny Woo conceded, to stop asking her younger child to be the daughter Jenny wanted.

* * *

 

"This isn't going to stop, is it?" Ryang's mother asked. Ryang's twelfth birthday was coming up. Jenny Woo couldn't let such a milestone go unnoticed, not when there were already so many eyes on them. If there was one thing Ryang had inherited, though, it was her tenacity. He wouldn't take another year of princesses, fairies, _pink_. He was already going to hate all the presents he received; he wouldn't hate the party, too.

Ryang shook his head wordlessly. He was careful to avoid his mother's eyes when she looked at him and sighed.

That afternoon, she took him to her hairstylist and then shopping. None of the salespeople nor the other shoppers dared say anything. But they weren't the only people around.

They made the cover of HELLO! Canada that day: JENNY WOO STRIKES PHOTOGRAPHER. The bottom left picture showed his mother with one hand in a fist, Ryang hiding just slightly behind her, holding the other. His hair was newly shorn. He was wearing a smart pair of trousers and a blazer.

Ryang's father had that cover framed. It has had a place on the wall in every house they've lived in since.

* * *

 

Ryang never thought coming to Henrietta was going to be hard, per se. He just never thought it was going to be this easy.

The locals don't like him but it's because he's a raven boy, Aglionby foreign, a passing phenomenon with little regard for local laws or norms. He is hated far more for who he wants to be more than for who he is. Henrietta has no interest in getting to know that person. It is in that indifference that Ryang is safe.

His aunt made it out to be so much worse than it is. She's so used to fighting, raging against the system, she's forgotten that sometimes people just don't care. The school does, they have to, but with his accommodations, with the white lies and excuses that trip off his tongue, Ryang's fellow students couldn't care less.

His housemates know. Mrs. Woo was careful to tell him she could do little should one of them decide to tell. Kicking them out would hardly undo the damage they might cause.

But they don't tell, two because Mrs. Woo made it a condition of their continued residence, one because he thinks it would be a shitty thing to do. Ryang is infinitely grateful for the latter. Lee-Squared isn't prone to offering his opinion on things but, when he does, the compassion flows.

It's impossible to dislike Lee-Squared. Even SickSteve, who can be overly critical and biting, turns quiet and considering when Lee-Squared has something to say. When you need someone to talk to, a calm, non-judgmental shoulder to lean on, Lee-Squared's your man.

Why does Ryang need a shoulder to lean on if Henrietta isn't a hotbed of bigotry and hatred?

Koh, mostly.

Koh is this short, little guy from Seoul, the son of an LG Chem engineer. He is as adorable as he is vapid, a sweet thing who was training with the JV soccer team before freshman year even started. He's excited by everything, delighted by life. Ryang is crushing before he's even aware of it.

Koh seems to return his feelings, the silly, silly boy.

"You should break it to him easy," Ryang tells his reflection in the bathroom mirror more than once. "This isn't going to happen. Get over it."

He can't, though. Koh's too sweet. The attention's too gratifying.

 _What if_ , Ryang thinks, _I don't do anything? What if I let this game keep going, consequences be damned?_

This line of thinking is why it's become a bit of a major issue. Ryang wants to feel out Koh's interest and receptivity but the boy's just not bright and he keeps missing all of Ryang's cues. Ergo, Lee-Squared.

The thing is, Ryang's not sure Koh is aware of his situation. People who are tend to do a terrible job of hiding it. They look at him and their faces might as well be neon signs flashing WE KNOW on and off for the entire continent to see. The more tolerant will keep quiet for a while. Eventually, though, the day will come when something is said and they'll turn to Ryang. It'll be wink wink nudge nudge, we know what you are, and what you are is not like the rest of us.

Koh hasn't done any of that. Rather than reassuring Ryang, it makes him worried. Because he likes Koh, genuinely, truly likes the guy and he doesn't want there to ever come a time where Koh sees him for his parts and not the sum of them.

Ryang rubs his hands over his face.

God, he just hates that this is something he has to think about. Get over one hurdle- gay- and he runs straight into another.

He shouldn't complain. No one at Aglionby's given him a hard time. Mostly, no one's noticed. There had never been anyone like him at Aglionby before, he was told when he sat in the Headmaster's office three Aprils ago with his parents and aunt. Given Ryang's excellent grades, medical history, and his aunt's long association with Aglionby, the administration saw no reason they could not accommodate him. Why, with Ryang living off campus, no one need ever know.

They made it shameful, phrasing it like that. Mrs. Woo had spoken out, to Ryang's father's embarrassment. Ryang doesn't remember her words, only her anger, the power coming from this miniscule woman he had met only two days before.

"Your great-aunt," Ryang's mother had said as they drove to Henrietta from the airport. "If the school accepts you, you'll be living with her. She has raised many boys before. Rather strange but she has a heart of gold. She'll take you in without a thought. You'll be able to start over here."

His mother didn't realize it but her words, though different, were a preview of what the school would say: _no one need ever know._

Brusque as she is, Ryang is grateful for his aunt. From the first day he came to live with her, she made her expectations and opinions clear. This woman he had never met before, whom his mother had never talked about, accepted him without a thought.

Ryang remembers setting his backpack down on the navy blue bedspread and looking around his new room. He had been terrified, jittery with nerves and fear. What if the other boys figured it out? What if they rejected him? Worse, what if they _exposed_ him? He was thousands of miles from home. If he wasn't safe here, he was safe nowhere.

As he thought these things, Mrs. Woo dropped a load of laundry outside his new door.

"Help me fold this," she commanded.

Ryang dutifully went. It became immediately apparent to both Ryang and his aunt that he had no idea what he was doing. Rather than telling him to stop, she would do it herself, Mrs. Woo coached him through it.

"Everyone should know how to fold sheets," she said, as though she needed to explain. "Do you know how to cook?"

Ryang's face turned red. "I am a boy, _ajumma_."

She cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. "So? Don't boys eat? Here everyone helps out."

" _Ne, ajumma_ ," Ryang said.

His aunt looked at him. "Do you enjoy speaking like that?"

"No," Ryang admitted.Korean came unnaturally to him. His parents never taught him, reserving it for private conversations. Around Ryang, there were many.

"Then don't. If you want to practice, one of the boys would be happy to help. Mealtimes, we only speak in English. That way everyone can understand."

"Marcus," she said, putting the last sheet in the basket. "This will not be easy. There may come a time when it seems the entire world is against you. Henrietta will hate you simply for being here. Are you so certain this is what you want?"

What else was there? If Ryang went back to Vancouver, he'd be a picture in a tabloid. _Look at Jenny Woo's daughter! Isn't she just the strangest thing?_ "I have nowhere else to go."

"Good," Mrs. Woo said. "Look forward. The past holds only suffering."

* * *

 

Sometimes, Ryang feels stupid. When Koh, Lee-Squared, SickSteve, and Cheng are spitting Korean at each other, one hundred words a second, he’s left in the dust, struggling to catch up with the words his grandparents speak daily and his parents barely use at all. Rutherford and Cheng2 say they understand, but they don’t, not when they speak Teochew to each other, dropping little words here and there, completely unaware they’re doing it because they recognized it in each other the day they met, that essence that said in-group.

Koh doesn’t care. He’s happy any time Ryang tries to form Korean words, even tells him it’s easier to understand his "American" accent than SickSteve’s Jeollado. He mimics the heavy accent Ryang can’t hear and Ryang laughs, not because he understands but because Koh wants him to feel included.

Koh’s sweet. He’s loud and brash with thighs that could split a man’s skull. He’s also lazy and whiny, relying on his cuteness to win him favors.

It works.

He does have flaws, though. Koh isn't the smartest. He gets excited too easily, confuses his words too often, in English and in Korean, too. SickSteve teases him about it, in a nice way.

“Mah-kuh,” Koh calls Ryang. It’s an awful nickname. It's also the closest Koh can get to his name and Ryang quickly comes to find he likes it.

Koh isn't shy about his affection. He tells Ryang he likes him and his oversized glasses, knit cap, and messy hair. He likes how Ryang wrinkles his nose when he gets to a hard problem, how he turns on Block B when they’re doing math because he says it helps him focus, how he comes to every game and half of Koh's practices without fail, even when they go late into the night and it’s dark out and cold.

He says he likes when Ryang speaks to him in broken Korean because it means he's trying, even though he never used it growing up. It's like Ryang's telling him, _hey, I mess up my words, too._

Lee-Squared tells him this level of affection isn't unusual for Korean boys. They do things differently over there. They're not so cautious. Koh's friendliness could hint at something more or it could mean nothing at all.

"Homosexuality," he warns Ryang, "is not something that's generally talked about."

Lee-Squared is probably right. Ryang should stop looking for meaning in Koh's words and actions. He's got enough things to worry about without trying to sort Koh out.

Ha, ha. Yeah, right.

Koh is Ryang's favorite leech, a little chigger who grabs onto his side the second they're in the same room together. Ryang's not going to push him away just to protect himself.

* * *

 

Autumn sophomore year, Ryang offers Koh a piggyback ride because Koh's whining that practice was too long and he doesn't want to walk back to the dorms. He's tired, he pouts, and his legs hurt. Ryang offers him a ride out of purely unselfish reasons, not because he wants Koh's muscular thighs around his waist or Koh's solid weight against his back, no. Why would Ryang want that?

Koh hops on immediately and wraps his arms around Ryang’s shoulders. Ryang’s strong and Koh's small, and they manage to get most of the way before Ryang stumbles. They fall, leaves scattering around them. Koh laughs.

"I can walk," he says, choking on laughter. "I can walk."

He sits up, about to stand, and their eyes meet. There’s this air, this electricity, that passes between them. It catches them both unawares with its strength.

Ryang coughs. He's the first to look away. The moment is broken.

It isn't forgotten.

Within a few weeks, leaning against Ryang becomes snuggling up against him, cold nights mean shared blankets and sleepovers, early mornings see Ryang showing up at the dorms with a steaming cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows because Koh doesn’t like coffee.

Within a few more weeks, the electricity becomes a crackle, a spark that threatens to turn into an inferno. It ignites the night Koh's team loses regionals. It's no big loss- the team wasn't ready for it and had no chance of winning- but Koh takes it hard. He walks back to the dorms defeated and upset, Ryang at his side. Ryang lets him cry it out, sitting on the bed next to him, stroking Koh's hair, the silly fauxhawk he likes so much. Koh grabs at him for whatever reason. Ryang’s eyes widen at the sudden contact and Koh goes for it.

He kisses Ryang, surging up into him, and Ryang kisses back. Later, Koh will tell Ryang defeat didn't feel so strong anymore, not when Ryang had one hand tangled in his hair and the other framing his jaw. When it was tongue and hot breath and the closeness Koh had been wanting only more, so much more, the loss felt different, less, more like a chance to try again.

* * *

 

They don’t tell anyone because it’s no one else’s business. Cheng2 figures it out and Rutherford, definitely, though neither has much to say about it.

“Be safe. Wear a condom,” Lee-Squared tells them both.

Cheng, to no one's surprise, has no idea anything is going on at all.

* * *

 

There is a peculiar atmosphere inside a specialist's waiting room. Everyone knows why everyone else is there. People look around. Some compare themselves to their fellow patients. Some avoid everyone's gazes. Some withdraw behind magazines or phones or the blankness of walls. _Don't talk, to me, don't look at me, I'm not here for you_ , their bodies say.

The strangest conversations occur in these waiting rooms. Some people are desperate to share their stories, to reach out to those who could maybe, possibly understand. Ryang is one of these.

Swan is not.

The first Tuesday of every month, Ryang arrives a half hour early. He does this because he is supposed to do this, because the receptionist asked him to do it his first day and he's never not done it since. This appointment is too important to miss.

Since he arrives so early, he has plenty of time to sit and wait. A few chairs down, Swan does the same. What are the chances, Ryang has always wondered, that the two of them would wind up at the same school the same year?

Ryang's known Swan for three years. He's known _about_ Swan since the day he sat down two chairs over from him in the waiting room of a Charlottesville health center and said, "Hey, you go to Aglionby, right?"

Swan hadn't been particularly receptive to Ryang's overtures then and he still isn't now. They could form their own little support group but they don't. In a way, that's more comforting than if they did.

"I do not exist," Swan hissed once, when Ryang tried to start a conversation, "to be your crutch."

The message was clear: Swan has his own life to live. Ryang has no part in it.

Ryang would respect that but he gets bored waiting and Swan is right there. It's harder to _not_ talk to him.

An objective observer would not take long to realize this is exactly why Swan doesn't like him.

Sadly for Swan, Ryang is not an objective observer. He's a man on a mission.

* * *

 

Ryang settles into the chair next to Swan, who sneers and turns his head the other way.

"Hi," Ryang says.

Swan ignores him.

Ryang tries again. "That math test, am I right?" They have Algebra II together. Ryang's doing great- math comes easy to him- but he's pretty sure Swan's struggling. Maybe Ryang can use this as an opening to tutor him.

Swan continues to disregard him.

"You know, if you need help with algebra, I could-"

Swan's head turns to face him. His eyes flash. "Why do you keep trying to talk to me?"

"Um." Ryang swallows. Under Swan's gaze, Ryang's nerve is beating a hasty retreat. "You pass." Swan has a prominent Adam's apple. He has muscles. Whatever binder he wears must be excellent because Ryang can't even tell (and he's looked). His voice is wonderfully deep. If Ryang didn't already know, he would have never guessed.

Swan's lips thin. "No, I really don't."

"Ye-"

"Don't," Swan says, "let the labels of others define you. That is my advice."

"Just be yourself," Ryang says, nodding. "Got it."

Swan's face says that isn't what he meant. He doesn't contradict himself, though, so Ryang takes it as a plus.

* * *

 

Several months later, Ryang sits down next to Swan again. He doesn't have a reason or an excuse. No reasonable person would call Swan a role model. He's barely passing his classes, he sneaks vodka into class, he's drunk or high more often than not. Just last week, he pulled into the school parking lot and his Golf had dents that the most talented of detailers couldn't buff out.

He's not a good student. He's a failure in the making.

But no one has ever doubted that he's male.

"I'm not," Swan says, looking at his phone, disinterested by Ryang's presence. "Trans."

"Okay," Ryang replies. He doesn't know why Swan would hide it- they're both here, aren't they? They use Doc Mac's bathroom every day. It's not like Ryang can't put two and two together.

"I'm serious," Swan says, picking up his bag to go into Dr. Hofheimer's office. "There is more than one answer to every riddle."

* * *

 

"It sucks, doesn’t it?"

Ryang didn't mean to sit next to Swan today. The waiting room's crammed, filled to the brim with people. Ryang's hugging his backpack to his chest- don't look at me, don't look at me, don't look at me- when he sees the only available chair is between Swan and the wall.

"Huh?" he asks. Did he imagine it or did Swan actually start a conversation with him?

"The hormones," Swan says, making a vague gesture with his right hand.

"I'm going through puberty at seventeen. Of course, it sucks."

"I was twelve."

"Oh, when you got your first one?" Ryang remembers how much that stunk, his chest swelling and hair growing but not where he wanted it. And the blood. A red banner saying, _look, you're ready to make babies_. He told his mother in confidence and horror, and she had been so proud, her child growing up. It took another year before he gathered up the courage to say this felt wrong, this wasn't what he wanted, _please, Mom,_ _I can't do this anymore._

Swan tilts his head. "You still think we're the same?"

"What else would we be?"

Swan's lips thin. "I have enough people trying to define who I am. I did not expect to have to add you to that list." Ryang's heart pounds. Swan's resting face is angry. Right now, he looks like he could murder Ryang and stash his corpse somewhere no one would ever find it. "5-ARDS."

"What?"

Swan stands up. A nurse has just called his name. Their time is ending. "5-alpha reductase deficiency syndrome," Swan says, pronouncing the words carefully and clearly. "Look it up."

* * *

 

"Figured it out, did you?" Swan asks. He's fingering the strap of his backpack, looking amused. Ryang doesn't think he would be able to dredge up that kind of emotion if he were in Swan's situation.

"I'm sorry," Ryang says. His eyes dart to the office door. They only have a few moments before Ryang gets called into his appointment.

"You should be." It's not a castigation. Ryang made a mistake and Swan's rolling with it.

Ryang feels bold. "This is what I like about you, Swan: you're honest."

Swan stares at him. Ryang beams.

"Can I ask you something?" Ryang asks since Swan doesn't seem to be walking away just yet.

"You already are."

"Are you happy living the way you do?"

Swan cocks an eyebrow.

"The drugs, the drinking, does that make you happy?"

"No," Swan says slowly, "but the people do. Keep hold of that boy of yours. There aren't enough like him."

Ryang doesn't ask how Swan knows about Koh.

"No," he agrees. "There really aren't."

* * *

 

The first time Koh went down on him, Ryang had to set the record straight. Koh had never given him any reason to doubt him but these things plague Ryang's mind, the idea that one day he might.

"I'm not a girl," Ryang blurted out. They were alone in Ryang's room, Ryang backed up against his bed. Koh's hand was on his zipper. He looked up and Ryang could have died happywith that image seared in his brain, Koh on his knees in front of him.

"Okay."

"Koh, I'm serious. I- we can't do this if you can't respect that."

Koh's brow furrowed. "If you say you're a guy, you're a guy. I know you don't have a dick. Why would that make you not a guy?"

His heart swelling, Ryang dragged Koh up to kiss him, this stupid, stupid boy. Of course, Koh wouldn't have a problem with this. Life is so hard for everyone else but, for Koh, it's the easiest thing.

(Hedid get off that day, don't think he didn't. Koh wanted to do it and Ryang wasn't about to stop him. He still isn't sure whether it was Koh or the fact that he had never touched himself but Ryang never knew parts he hated so much could make him feel so good.)

* * *

 

"What will you do," Ryang's psychiatrist asks, "after you've completed your transition?"

Ryang has never liked this psychiatrist. There's nothing wrong with the man, per se. It's simply that he asks invasive questions. He's the gatekeeper to Ryang's T, to his mental health. There is the very real possibility Ryang will say the wrong thing one day and all of this- the T, the specialists, Aglionby- will be taken away from him.

"Live," Ryang says. "Be the man I was always supposed to be. What else is there?"

The psychiatrist scratches notes into his pad. Ryang fiddles with his glasses. He doesn't need them, they're for aesthetic purposes only, but then Ryang's largely about the aesthetic.

"We should create goals. Do you know what a five year plan is?"

Of course, Ryang does. But it's so hard to see the forest for the trees when all he wants to do is scream at his body, scream at the school administration, scream at his parents for accepting but not understanding, for asking once, just once, if this was their fault.

_No one need ever know._

_You'll be able to start over here._

_Is this our fault?_

Ryang doesn't want to keep living like this. He wants to improve, reach his goals, and become more. He's tired of everyone phrasing his identity and his parts as a problem. They are but not for the reasons everyone thinks. Ryang's got this vision in his head, this sense of how his body should be, and he can't wait to make that vision a reality. Of course, that vision's going to dominate his life.

Ryang touches the short hairs of his undercut self-consciously.

"I want to make art," he says.

For the first time, his psychiatrist's neutral expression turns to one of interest.

"What kind?"

"Photography," Ryang says. "I just got this new camera." And he tells him about the Sony, about his collection of cameras, some new, some antique. He loves Ansel Adams, Robert Glenn Ketchum, and Subhanker Banerjee. Every time he goes to Washington, he visits the Smithsonian photography exhibits. It's not just nature photography he's into, either. Ryang likes smaller scale stuff, too, the art of food photography and home interiors, where everything comes down to minute changes in design. The natural world is beautiful but when you have control....

He doesn't want to be a paparazzo, Ryang's quick to add. He thinks they're scum, looking to make a quick buck off other people's lives. He doesn't want to take pictures of people at all. He wants to capture powerful things, the sort of pictures people want to hang in their living room or use as a background on their phone. He'd like to have a coffee table book at some point, just photos he took, no one else's.

The psychiatrist smiles at him. "I think," he says, "you already have your five year plan."


	7. Chapter 7

Henry doesn't bring up Declan's offer again. He tells Declan Kavinsky said no and he makes more excuses to be around Kavinsky because that's what Seondeok needs him to do. Recruiting Jiang remains Henry's ultimate goal, but it's becoming an increasingly long game.

Today is just one more step in the ceaseless campaign.

Henry arrives at the mansion well after dark. He's been taking a new route lately, in case anyone has decided to follow him. He doubts they have, but there's no reason to be incautious.

He takes his bike around the side of the house. Again, it's unlikely anyone will recognize it, but better safe than sorry.

He knocks on Kavinsky's side door. It opens after the second try. Skov rolls his eyes when he sees Henry standing there.

"He's upstairs," Skov says and leaves Henry to the pack.

The first few times Henry came upon this, his brain nearly short-circuited trying to figure out what was genuine shamelessness and what was them trying to freak him out. Anyone else would have considered them indisposed and would have taken Henry to another room. Skov is either in on this game or genuinely sees no issue. 

There's a mattress in the center of the room. It's not a bed, just a collection of stained sheets and pillows. It's a movable piece of furniture with one, singular purpose to which it is being currently put.

That purpose? Ah, you don't know? You can't guess?

Sex.

At this very moment, Prokopenko is naked and straddling Swan’s thigh. He grins back at Swan as Swan sneers at Henry. Prokopenko's right hand is down a semi-conscious Jiang’s pants and this is a tableau Henry hopes the rest of the school isn't forced to be privy to. Alternatively, isn't privy to.

It's all very confusing, what Henry wants.

He hates keeping his mother's secrets but there's something thrilling to being trusted with a modicum of Kavinsky's. He's not one of them and never would be, yet he elicits a reaction that, at the very least, gives him a glimpse into their strange world.

And he regrets, sometimes, that his own followers aren’t so close.

SickSteve would never throw his arm around Koh's shoulder and Ryang would never grin in that smug, secretive way at Cheng2. They aren't close like that. They know this is over the second they graduate, that what they have in common is their origins and their archetypal roles, nothing more. They are suffering, quite apparently, from a depletion of  _jeong_. Worse, they're Americanized, too cognizant of the arrangement of male bodies in concert with their own, too aware that gestures have meaning and that people are always watching and judging.

Kavinsky's boys are free from such concerns. Skinship comes naturally to them and only Skov would ever strike anyone as fully American. And, of course, they don't care what anyone else thinks.

Jiang shifts and curls into Swan’s side, and none of Henry's followers would do that sober. Not that Jiang’s sober. But sober isn't his resting state and this is, and he's comfortable with Swan and Prokopenko, who's reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair, in a way Henry's people aren't.

 _How_ , Henry wonders not for the first time, _do you do it? How do you turn followers into lovers, into friends?_

* * *

 

Prokopenko is sitting on Kavinsky's stoop when Henry pulls up. He lifts his cigarette in greeting but otherwise doesn't acknowledge him.

Henry might not understand Prokopenko or find him attractive (the dude needs to take way more showers and do a mite less drugs) but he's certainly the easiest of Kavinsky's to get along with. His tolerability only increases with the distance between him and his master and, right now, Kavinsky is nowhere in sight.

"Why," Henry asks, "is there trash everywhere?"

The front lawn is covered in an assortment of refuse. Although there are beer bottles aplenty, it looks less like the aftermath of a party and more like a dumpster vomited its contents over an expertly manicured lawn.

"Lynch," Prokopenko says around the cigarette in his mouth. "Came by this morning and left that."

"And you didn't stop him?"

Prokopenko shrugs. "He does it about once a month. The landscapers hate him."

This must be a courtship ritual of sexually repressed white boys Henry is unfamiliar with.

"Piece of work, that one is," he says.

Prokopenko snorts.

He looks tired, though surprisingly not out of it. It doesn't matter, Henry tells himself. Prokopenko has no potential. He's a natural follower, none too bright and none too pretty. A yes man to a higher power is as far as he will ever get.

Maybe that's why Henry doesn't mind him so much. He's exactly the sort people like Henry want to keep around. People like Kavinsky, too.

Henry doesn't often let the thought cross his mind that he and Kavinsky have anything in common but there it is.

Prokopenko is a little jitterier than usual, more restless. Henry thinks this might be closer to his natural state, who he is without Kavinsky. Henry doesn't want to be around the day Kavinsky leaves him behind.

He doubts he will be but still. There are leaders and there are followers, and Prokopenko rests firmly in the second category.

Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. It's the choice of leader Henry doesn't like, not the having one.

He's more complicated than people think, Prokopenko. You don't get to be a favorite without having something to give. Kavinsky likes his toys a little bit broken but Prokopenko's still got an edge, a spark that ignites into a firestorm when it needs to. Like a gas stove's pilot light, his calm subservience is a temporary thing.

Sometimes, Henry wants to push him if only to see that other side come out. He doesn't want Prokopenko for himself- he doesn't want him at all- but he has a deep-seated desire to see Kavinsky's sway over him break.

Kavinsky doesn't deserve to be  _something more_. He shouldn't be allowed to control people the way he does.

(Henry wishes, sometimes, in the dark of night when secret desires make themselves known, that he were more like Kavinsky.

In the brightness of day, he'll admire Gansey, take note of the way Declan commands a room, see how much trust people put in Dan Carruthers’ words.

But at night, oh, in the deep, dark night he wishes nothing more than to hold someone’s life in the very palm of his hand.)

* * *

 

Henry walks into French class. The room is quiet, the buzz of students exchanging hellos and continuing conversations. Early morning chatter, nothing too juicy or interesting.

The professor, an old, stooped Parisian, shuffles his way into the classroom. The class falls silent.

All except one, who was already silent.

You would not know, if you were anyone else in this classroom, what a travesty this is.

 _This_ is model minority Koh. Sitting up straight, looking forward, not asking questions because questions mean not understanding and Koh knows how loud he is, how easy it'd be so easy to slip into the role of class clown. Koh on the soccer pitch is an entirely different creature, driven and hard, out to make the team proud. At the house, he's whiny and lazy, prone to making Ryang or Cheng2 bring him things while he's lying on the couch, because  _kitchen's really far, guys, and 'm tired. Come on, Cheng2, it's like ten steps, you going that way anyway._

Henry prefers this last Koh by far.

But this is school and that Koh is tucked away, leaving a quiet, industrious shell. It's a form of genocide, really, making someone change to combat your image of their people.

And of course, Henry is much the same way. So they nod at each other and don't say anything the entire class. They’ll go to their next class and do the same, even though Koh struggles with French conjugations and Henry's a failure at basic math.

This is what it means to be a visible minority. They're on display every time they walk down Aglionby's halls, a pack of Asian students with good grades and perfect hair and the soul-crushing burden of sucking up to the majority to get what they want.

Henry's not as good as some of the others. He can't keep all of his questions quiet or his comments, and he knows social injustice when he sees it. He wants to be like the white boys whose words always matter, who the professors look at fondly, who the faculty listen to when changes need to be made.

He is rather tired of being under someone's thumb.

* * *

 

Henry stares. He doesn't know how, he doesn't have an explanation why, but there is something wrong with Kavinsky's favorite. Docility isn't a new look on him but it's a situational one.

He grabs Jiang by the arm and pulls him to the side.

“What's wrong with him?” he asks. He means,  _what did Kavinsky do to him?_

Henry can't say exactly when he figured it out. One week, he was still trying to find the supplier and the next he looked at RoboBee and it was clear as day. Kavinsky was the supplier.  _He_ made all those impossible things appear. Almost three years have gone by and it is only now that Henry sees the truth.

Maybe one of Kavinsky's followers let it slip, used the word  _dream_ in a way Henry would never have thought of it before. That must be how it happened. Henry's smart but the leap would have been too far on his own.

However it happened, Henry's eyes have been opened. Kavinsky is a supplier and Niall Lynch was one, too. RoboBee is a dream, the product of someone's mind.

This knowledge is both thrilling and terrifying. Kavinsky is not simply acquiring magical things. He's  _creating_ them, only limited by an imagination fixated on forgeries and drugs.

Has he gone past that? Has he found a new game? Henry fears that he has.

Jiang glances down at Henry's hand. “You have three seconds to let go before I punch you in the face.”

Henry withdraws his hand.

“What's up with your man Prokopenko?”

Jiang stills.

“Nothing’s up with him,” he says. “He's fine.”

Jiang’s eyes tell Henry that every word of that is a lie.

So something did happen.

“What did Kavinsky do to him?”

“Nothing,” Jiang says, making a cutting motion with his hand, “happened. Capiche?”

 _He's afraid_ , Henry thinks, _and he doesn’t want anyone to know._

If Kavinsky's creating mind control drugs....

Henry corners Prokopenko after class. He gets Rutherford and Cheng2 to distract Kavinsky's people long enough to separate him from the pack.

Prokopenko looks at him with those too docile eyes.

“What did he do to you?” Henry asks.

Prokopenko smiles lazily at him, rolling his head to bare his neck. “What did who do?”

Henry searches his eyes for a cry for help, for something, and he can't find it.

His stomach turns. His teeth grit.

Weeks turn into months and Prokopenko doesn't get better, doesn't change, remains complacent and relaxed when K’s not around.

Henry feels sick, like he's watching someone get roofied, only it’s never-ending. 

He's not the only one who notices. It’s a joke that spreads into a rumor. _Kavinsky_ , people say, _has Prokopenko whipped._

He always was, Henry knows. But now everyone knows. It’s always there, this false, edited down version of a boy.

Henry's starting to suspect Kavinsky did something permanent, lobotomized his consort when no one was looking, and now there's no going back.

“Kavinsky's stumbled upon something big,” he tells Seondeok. “A way to control people.”

Seondeok takes three days to get back to him. When she does, it’s a simple instruction: find out what it is.

She wants it, whatever Kavinsky has. Henry loves his mother and he knows what she’s capable of. She doesn’t have eyes here. Henry is her eyes in Henrietta.

She won’t know if Henry takes his time.

And if she does, if that power of hers lets her in on what Henry’s hiding, Henry will take the punishment. Because he imagines what Kavinsky’s done to Prokopenko is the bare minimum of what a person can do if they have full control.

If Henry were a braver person, he would confront Kavinsky and find a way to destroy whatever he’s got his hands on. He’d wrench it from Kavinsky’s hands and demand he fix his follower because who does that to their friend, their confidante, their lover? Who has someone worship at their feet and say it’s not enough, I need you at my beck and call 24/7? 

Henry feels sick all the time. He’s scared, angry, and powerless. Weeks go by and people laugh and start to accept Prokopenko’s changes as natural. He looks drugged all the time, his jitteriness and constant laughter gone, erased, and Henry can only wonder what Kavinsky’s making him do when no one’s looking.

He resolves to find out what Kavinsky’s giving him. Kavinsky’s court is no help, refusing to even acknowledge anything’s different, Jiang telling him to fuck off, Swan ignoring him, Skov laughing in his face after soccer practice. Henry tries not to think how much longer they have before Kavinsky starts slipping his mind control drugs into their drinks, too. He tries not to imagine a day will come when they turn up at school, a sea of unfocused eyes and milky voices.

Seondeok, Henry vows, is never getting her hands on what Kavinsky has.

* * *

 

"Can you dream a person?" Henry muses.

"You can, can't you?" he asks Declan, rolling over to look at him.

Declan's gone still. "I don't want to talk about this with you."

He doesn't, not when he knows without a doubt it's possible, not when he knows exactly why this is something Seondeok's middle child would be asking.

Something's happened to Kavinsky's toy.

Declan barely knew the guy. But dream things have a look to them, a feel that can be ascertained with enough practice. Two seconds around Prokopenko, just a glance from across the parking lot, was enough for Declan to see that Kavinsky had taken the logical next step.

Declan remembers waking up to a new brother, one who was not of this world. There was never a time he doesn't remember Ronan's mother but nowadays his mind tells him, perhaps wrongly, perhaps right, that he always knew she was a little bit odd.

It doesn't matter. Declan spends every day with Matthew now. He's intimately familiar with the intricacies of dream things. He manages the home nurse's pay, listens to her pointless weekly reports on Aurora's condition.

Seondeok can't know about this.

Buyers have figured out Kavinsky's drugs are laced with magic. They assume he infuses them with something, works some sort of spell over them. They don't yet know he is an artist to Henrietta's raw material. Let them take Henrietta. Declan has no love for this place. But the realization that Kavinsky can create a facsimile of a human, that such golems already exist...that would pose a problem.

"Pity," Henry says. He's another person when he's with Declan, less himself, more his mother. Declan suspects Henry's on no better terms with his mother than Declan was with his father. Henry's mother died a long time ago. Henry is a device before he is anything else, even a son.

They're both liars. They're both parts of criminal empires. Henry may yet leave this all behind. Not Declan. This valley is in his blood, it's where his father's treasure lies. There will never be a day he isn't tied to this place. Henry isn't so unlucky.

"The answer is 'yes', then?"

"The answer," Declan says, glaring at Henry, "is many things are possible. I could go out and buy a blowup doll that looks like a real woman. Does that make it human?"

Henry scowls. He must not be feeling up to philosophical questions right now. He's so obvious Declan can hardly believe Seondeok sent this child to Aglionby. Henry thinks he can come to Declan's room and give Declan what he wants, attractive male companionship, a pretty boy on his bed, in exchange for information, for the chance to have someone know one part of him he has to keep hidden. What a pretty fool. Declan's a dealer, Seondeok's a buyer, and Henry's nothing more than a kid trying to keep his head above the waterline.

"Why would someone do it?" he asks. Why, when there are seven billion plus people on the planet, when reproduction is so easy, would someone take the hardest route to make another?

"Why else?” Declan says. “Because they can."

* * *

 

“Your brother,” Henry says, nodding to the boy sitting cross-legged on his bed with earbuds in, “he's not the sharpest, is he?”

It's rude to point out but Matthew Lynch has an emptiness to him. He's content with the simplest things. He has barely a handful of interests. He skates by in school, no doubt boosted by the Lynch family fortune.

“What's your point?”

“No point,” Henry says quickly. “Only asking.”

He doesn't want to set Declan off. Declan's got height, muscle, and weight to his advantage. He's not exactly known for keeping his cool.

“There's nothing wrong with that,” Henry adds. “You can't have above average without average first.”

“Did no one ever teach you when to stop talking?”

“No,” Henry says. Of course, he knows when to stop talking. It's just the Lynchs are as safe as it gets for Henry and he gets a little carried away spilling all the honest thoughts he's got trapped inside.

Matthew, having heard none of this, smiles beatifically at them.

"Matthew," Declan says, "go to the library."

"Okay," Matthew replies. He gathers his things and then he's gone.

The second the door shuts behind Matthew, Declan grabs Henry by the front of his shirt and slams him against the wall. "What are you playing at, Cheng? You think this is a game? You're wrong. These are people's lives you're toying with."

"You think I don't know that? It's my friends who're getting hurt!"

Declan sneers. "I thought you didn't have friends."

"I don't," Henry amends quickly. Prokopenko's not his friend. Neither is Jiang. The words came of their own accord. "But there's a kid out there getting roofied on a daily basis and no one's doing anything about it."

"He's not getting 'roofied'," Declan says, curling his lips over the word. "You know what Kavinsky can do. Do you not know how he does it?"

This is a secret, Henry realizes. Not for Kavinsky or his court, but Declan. Why? What do Kavinsky's powers have to do with-

RoboBee buzzes in Henry's pocket. Henry's mother once said she got the bee from a scoundrel, albeit one with the most beautiful mind. Declan and Seondeok know each other from long association. Still, he would have only been eleven when Henry was ten, when his mother gave him that bee and said _this will unlock your potential_.

Henry gives Declan a quizzical look.

"No," Declan says.

"Who was it?" Henry asks because he's been spending a lot of time around Cheng2 lately and with that company comes little conversational oversight. "Your mother or your father?"

"My father's dead," Declan says, flat as a board.

And that's it, isn't it. Declan's father is dead. The son has taken on the mantle.

"What are you going to do about Prokopenko?" Henry asks.

"There's nothing to be done."

"Tell me what Kavinsky did. There has to be a way to fix this."

Declan's jaw sets. "Did you hear anything I just said? It's a lost cause, Cheng."

"But, your father-" Declan glowers. "You're really going to let Kavinsky keep doing this."

"You have no idea what you're talking about. You're a stupid, little kid who thinks he knows anything."

"Your father-"

"Get out," Declan roars. "Get out!"

* * *

 

“You’re late.”

Henry pulls his motorcycle helmet off, sifting a hand through his hair to reform the careful peaks.

“I got held up,” he says, affecting indifference, as though he hadn’t catalogued exactly when to leave to seem more impudent than forgetful.

Declan’s expression remains shuttered. “Was I not clear about when we would be meeting?”

“You were.” Henry pauses just long enough that Declan’s hanging on his words, expecting an explanation.

It’s a game of wills, this. Declan Lynch has no respect for Henry Cheng. Henry  _will_ be respected. It's just a matter of time.

"What is this about?" Henry asks when Declan's made no move to speak. He leans against his motorcycle, faux-casual.

Declan rolls his sleeves up. It's a call to violence, an effort to set Henry on edge, make him look at the obvious muscle and whip-cord strength of his companion. Henry's not taking the bait.

"You need to be careful," Declan says finally. Henry can't decide whether it's a warning or a threat.

"Why?"

"Do you remember the question you asked me the other day?"

Of course, Henry does.

"Did you stop to think  _why_ you had to ask?"

"It's your-"

"No," Declan says, cutting him off. "That's not what I meant. You said Kavinsky's friend has changed and you think Kavinsky had something to do with it."

"I'm not following."

Declan sucks a breath in and lets it out excruciatingly slowly. "Kavinsky is getting rid of people." Henry's eyes widen. He'd known, he'd guessed, but to hear Declan say it- "Understand now?"

"Are you saying it is possible? To dream a person, it's possible?"

Declan looks away, then back again. "I'm not confirming or denying. I'm saying be careful. Your mother won't be pleased if you end up dead."

* * *

 

Of course, K can dream a person. He's already done it. Cheng's just too dumb to ask the people who already know.

There's a rumor circulating, has been for a while, that Kavinsky did his old man in. His old man the mobster, the gangster, the Bulgarian crime boss.

It's hardly the worst or most imaginative rumor about him. Skov's heard them all. He's spent years more than most in this stupid hick town where everyone gossips and no one admits to it. Because of these narrow-minded rednecks, he's perfected the art of saying too much without really saying anything at all.

You want to know the truth?

The truth is, K didn't kill his father.

The truth is he did.

The truth is three immoral people put their heads together and found a way to rid themselves of a despicable man. They placed a gun in an abused child's hand and they used a little boy's power to cover the whole thing up. The forgery wasn't too good but it was good enough and anyone who thought differently developed a sudden habit of never being seen again.

They gave the boy companions, toys, clothes, everything he could ask for. And when he started turning out like his father, they gave him money, drugs, women. They didn't give him love or affection.

You have to understand, the father wasn't a good man. He was a typical mug, a low level gangster. He'd fought tooth-and-nail for his territory but he had no designs on more. He wasn't particularly smart or ambitious or kind. He  _was_ cruel. He  _did_ lay hands on his wife and mistresses. It's not easy looking at the progeny of that kind of man and feeling sympathy.

They made plans, once, to, get rid of the son. But even immoral people have their limits and there was the fear, the uncertainty of what would happen to his forgeries, to the father's replacement, if he were to go.

So they kept watch and they kept the boy close. They moved him to Henrietta where the Skovrons did certain types of business. His mother, the third member of the trio, came, too. In Henrietta, she found she could not escape her son, who had become aware, with the help of the Skovrons' loose-lipped boy, just how much autonomy had been taken from him over the years.

No more.

The truth is, the only person who ever really knew and liked Joseph Kavinsky growing up was Skov. The truth is, immoral is as immoral does and, in far too many ways, Skov takes after his parents.

Whoever they might be.

* * *

 

You’d think it’d be easy to tell the difference between a dream and a real thing. You’d think, if given the chance, you would be able to say with certainty, this is real and this is impossible. But Henry's shown RoboBee to a handful of people and only a few could definitively say without prompting that it was a dream.

It takes Henry two months to realize Prokopenko is a dead man walking. The week after, he realizes Lynch's pet carrion bird flies on impossible wings. Sometime, somewhen, he realizes Matthew Lynch has no mother.

Now Henry can tell the difference but then? Who was to say Prokopenko's obedience came easier, his protests quieter.

Who was to say he was the only dream.

Who was to say Henry Cheng ever knew the real Prokopenko.

Henry stands in Kavinsky's basement, feeling despair beyond anything he's ever felt before. He had thought he could save this boy, he could get him out of here, away from Kavinsky. Detox him, get his mind back.

Instead, he gets to watch this charade day in and day out.

Kavinsky kisses his fingertips and Prokopenko’s breath hitches.

"You got it, baby boy," Kavinsky says and Henry tries not to hear. Once, he would have said it was because he's not a bigot but because there's something intensely wrong about Kavinsky being gentle. He would have said he was rough and raw, pain not because you like it but because he does.

Henry doesn't know what to think or feel about Prokopenko so he tries not to. Henry is and Prokopenko is and they exist in separate parts of the same world. It is enough to acknowledge Prokopenko's existence, strange as it is, and his importance in Kavinsky's gang, strange as that is.

Because if Henry stops to think, he has to evaluate his grief, whether it's misplaced. He has to consider his own relationship to dreamt things and that is not something he wants to do.

Henry's followers assume RoboBee is one of his father's inventions, though nothing Henry's father makes has ever been so beautiful. They see magic and think science, technology, innovation. Henry's careful to keep up the artifice.

Not that it matters. Henry could walk out of here today, tell the whole world about Prokopenko, and only those who already know would believe him.

Henry can’t save him. As it turns out, he never could.


	8. Chapter 8

This is how Henry cuts ties with Kavinsky. This is how Kavinsky nearly kills Cheng2. One happened before the other but no one's quite certain which it was.

The weird thing is, it's Prokopenko who stops the madness.

There are three basic rules to Kavinsky:

  1. Don't take Kavinsky's drugs without asking what they are.
  2. Don't touch Kavinsky's toys without permission.
  3. Don't do anything, especially anything involving his dogs, his Prokopenko, that Kavinsky doesn’t like.



Cheng2 makes the near fatal mistake of getting into an argument with Prokopenko.

Swan or Skov would have been fine, would have ended in a fistfight and an Asian kid getting decked. Jiang would have flipped Cheng2 off. But Prokopenko uses his words and Cheng2 uses his back and whatever he says Kavinsky hears and it. Hits. A. Chord.

Shit doesn’t go down that night only because Prokopenko stops it. Henry and his leave the party unscathed, and, stupidly, they forget. They forget that Kavinsky holds grudges and isn’t the least bit forgetful, and they don’t notice the strike until Cheng2’s passed out on the floor and not responding.

The EMT says one more milligram would have left him brain dead. Two more would have left him dead dead.

RoboBee keeps watch over his bedside during the seconds, minutes, hours Henry can’t be there. He has to go to class, he has to get notes and assignments for Cheng2, he has to be away, and it is so hard with only RoboBee’s feedback that Cheng2’s breathing, his heartrate’s nearly normal, he just needs quiet and rest.

“He’s going to be okay,” Ryang tells Henry, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“Is he?” Henry asks. Kavinsky took days and he didn’t finish the job. Henry’s the only one who knows Kavinsky’s drugs aren’t normal, they’re _something_ _more._ There could be a sleeper poison hidden in there and Henry won’t know until it’s already gone into effect.

He doesn’t know. It’s his fault Cheng2 was there that night and he just doesn’t _know_ what’s going to happen. All he has are possibilities to fret over and liars to ask.

“I need help,” he tells Seondeok. “I need something that will purge the drug from his system.”

She asks him why. Not who does he need it for because she doesn’t care but why. What did he take, how much, do you know the effects.

“Kavinsky,” Henry answers. “He’s getting dangerous.”

“Aren't we all” is her succinct reply.

She gets a tincture for him. Henry makes Cheng2 take it and he’s violently sick but afterwards, it’s done, it’s gone. His heartrate’s normal, he’s got his color back, Kavinsky’s substance is _gone_.

Cheng2 asks what Henry gave him and Henry tells him a half-truth. Cheng2 accepts it, just as he always does.

Henry wishes, just once, Cheng2 wouldn’t accept his lies. He wishes that, almost as much as he wishes he didn’t have to lie in the first place.

Because Cheng2 is someone Henry knows he could be friends with, real friends, if he didn’t have to keep secrets all the time. But Cheng2 is open and incautious, exactly the sort of person you don’t tell things to if you don’t want everyone to know.

But, God, does Henry want to be real friends with him.

Cheng2 doesn’t make holding off easy. He steps into the role of second-in-command effortlessly, listens to Henry’s bitching and drunk rambling, and just accepts the Henry Henry lets him see. In return, he gives so much more.

Henry’s met Cheng2’s dads a couple times. His parents divorced when he was young and his biological father remarried, which left Cheng2 with the delightfully confusing situation of three dads and no mom, since the egg donor was anonymous.

Cheng2 spilled all this within two weeks of Henry meeting him, just a torrent of energy drink- and nerves-fueled information. He told Henry all about growing up in Pigeon Forge, about tourists coming to see Dollywood, about everyone always thinking he was lost and on his way to see an attraction. He explained what it was like being mixed and no one thinking you were mixed, and how he could stand next to his bio-dad and people would think he was adopted. He talked about how he was tired of racism and casual xenophobia in the South but he’d been North plenty of times to see his other dad and at least people here were honest about their racism, at least it wasn’t kept under the table, hidden, only to be brought out in hushed whispers and awkward questions. He talked about being torn between two cultures, how he wasn’t white enough to be at home in his hometown but he wasn’t Chinese enough to be welcomed by the diaspora. And God forbid he deal with people from the motherland.

He and Rutherford had bonded over that last part, had laughed and bumped fists in a way that said it wasn’t funny at all what they’d been through but, damnit, they were going to laugh anyway.

Later, more things would spill out, strange, intriguing bits of a life Henry never lived. Cheng2 told Henry about how everyone in his family knew all of Dolly Parton's greatest hits because Dolly is what brought them together and what tore them apart.

Henry never asked but Cheng2 told him anyway about how his bio dad is a bigwig in show business, how he owns a considerable share in Dollywood, how his pops left him after he caught him cheating with a ride operator. How that ride operator is now his stepdad and everyone is so much happier.

“I'm sorry,” Cheng2 says again and again, “my life is so weird, I know.”

“No,” Henry assures him. “You've got a story to tell. Never apologize for that.”

Henry takes longer but he lets Cheng2 in on some of his secrets, too.

“When I was ten,” he tells Cheng2 the first time Cheng2 witnesses one of his panic attacks, “my mother’s business rivals kidnapped me. That’s why I’m like this.”

“This is RoboBee,” he tells Cheng2 when he asks, placing the metal insect in his hands, flushing when Cheng2’s gentle with it, fascinated by its delicate wire wings and spindle legs. “It makes me feel better. Safer.”

“My mother isn’t a good person,” he says on a night when they are up too late, sitting on Litchfield’s roof, staring up at what few stars they can see. “Smart, beautiful, powerful. All those things she is but good she’s not. If I don’t get out of here, I’m afraid I’m never going to get out of her clutches.”

Cheng2 listens and nods along. He doesn’t pry. Henry wants to lean against him, wants to pull one of Cheng2’s arms around him and just forget that he’s the keeper of his mother’s secrets, that his existence in Henrietta is a cover, that he won’t get to start living his own life until these four years are up and he’s graduated and gone.

He wants, more than anything, to apologize for dragging Cheng2 into his mother’s deceptions.

* * *

 

“What did you say to him?” Henry asks when Cheng2's been cognizant a few days. "Prokopenko."

Cheng2 rubs his forehead and groans. He's had a pounding headache for days. Henry can't help thinking it's a side effect of whatever he gave him. But. Cheng2's awake. He's alive. “I asked if he was ever going to get tired of playing Kavinsky's bitch.”

It sounds like something Cheng2 would say.

“You're an idiot,” Henry tells him. His cheek rests against his fist as he watches Cheng2. Henry feels calm for the first time in days.

"I guess I am." Cheng2 gives him that All-American smile.

Henry punches him in the arm.

"Don't do that again," he tells him. Then softer, "Please."

Henry doesn't understand the emotions that play over Cheng2's face. He does understand his words: "I won't."


	9. Chapter 9

Swan wakes in a mass of warm bodies. He sits up, rubbing his numb arm (courtesy of Proko who had been using it as a headrest), and surveys the room, trying to determine what caused him to wake.

K's up but then he almost always is. He's stroking the side of Proko's face, unusually gentle. The muscles in his forearm shifts as he moves down Proko's neck.

Ah, that's it.

"Come," Swan says. "Let's get you patched up."

Kavinsky is slow to leave Proko but come he does.

The bathroom is cool at this time of night, the tiles icy under Swan's bare feet.

K sits on the edge of the tub. His expression is somewhere between irritated and indulgent.

Swan wets a towel and brings it over to K. He hesitates, not asking permission but waiting to make certain this gesture won't be turned away.

K inclines his head just the slightest bit.

Swan begins to mop up the blood.

Thin scratches, too fine to be human nails, line K's lower arms. The blood isn't much but these are the kinds of wounds that become easily infected.

Swan doesn't bother to ask whether they hurt.

They've been happening more and more often, these wounds. K waves off any queries.

"Everything's got a price," he'll say with a smile that dies before it reaches his eyes.

It's his dreams. They've always been dangerous. It used to be just blisters and burns. Now thread-fine scratches and shallow cuts have been added to the lineup. Whatever danger lives in K's head has changed.

This is K though, so he isn't going to talk about it, not with Swan. Swan just gets to clean him up and hope this will end soon.

"I have antiseptic in the car," Swan says. K makes a sweeping gesture to one of the bottles tilted sideways on the floor.

"Your funeral." Swan soaks a dry end of the towel in Everclear and returns to his ministrations. Skov's better at this, he's been doing it longer, and Proko would be able to elicit some reaction from K, but Swan thinks he's doing an all right job. He's patched himself up enough times to have a functional knowledge of first aid.

There's no thank you. K gives him an insolent look, rolls his shoulders, and heads back to bed. Swan follows.

Skov cracks an eye when Swan settles in the center of the bed. Swan shakes his head infinitesimally and Skov closes it again.

A smile tugs at Swan's lips. Jiang is wrapped around Skov, using him as a human body pillow. Skov, his head turned towards him, has a hand threaded through Jiang's hair.

They're cute together. It's not the almost unbearable sweetness of Proko and Jiang but a more mellow, oblivious thing. They don't quite know what to do with each other. It's a sort of gravitational pull, Jiang looking for comfort and Skov never one to withhold it.

Jiang, Swan's certain, didn't receive much affection as a child. Jiang won't confirm or deny, barely talks about his childhood at all, but his reluctance to ask for anything, to be treated as more than just a hanger-on, tells its own story.

By the time Swan's comfortable, K's gone back to running his fingers down Proko's neck. Swan cannot decide whether Proko is half asleep or under the influence of one of K's special cocktails. It's not like K cares about consent.

 _It's not_ , Swan thinks with an emotion he refuses to name, _like Proko can give it anymore._

That brings up another thought: what is K going to do when September comes? Proko graduates in June. Obviously, he'll stay in Henrietta, K would never send him away, certainly not to Jersey, but how will K explain it? People are bound to notice and K's mother already despises them both. Maybe they'll go to Skov's. People don't pay much attention to the Skovrons and they've never had a problem with Prokopenko.

K will figure it out. Swan should stop thinking. He should put his mind on hold, forget how K's injuries are changing and his interests, too.

This nonsense with Lynch will blow over. He wasn't here a year ago, he won't be here a year hence.

Things will settle soon.

Swan turns on his side, back to Proko, who he's positive now is awake and just messing with K. Swan slips a hand up under Skov's shirt and settles down for the night. He drifts off thinking he really does adore them, these strange, reckless, self-destructive boys who have accepted him into their fold.


	10. Chapter 10

Henry raps on a door entitled  _Effervescence_. He has been here before but today he feels like a trespasser. He's not positive his presence here is allowed. Every other time, Henry has been the one approached.

The door opens.

“Can I help you, Cheng?” Declan asks, looking annoyed. Somewhat. It’s rather hard to tell with all the bruising.

Henry steps inside _Effervescence_. Had he gone home for the summer, this most likely would not be a problem. Seondeok had insisted that he stay at least until the end of June. She had a feeling something was to occur around that time.

This prediction was why Henry was here, long after dark, encroaching upon Declan's space.

“Oh, my God, let’s not do this.” Henry casts his eyes to the heavens- in this case the ceiling- and holds his hands out in supplication. Declan is not impressed by his theatrics. Henry drops his arms and levels him with a serious gaze. “You got your ass beat and I know it wasn't by some random burglar. Who's here?”

“No one you need to worry about,” Declan says. His face is an ugly, mottled red-purple. “Family business.”

Henry resists the urge to tap the side of Declan's head and say, _ding dong, our families are in the same business_. “Do you have a name?”

“He doesn't have a name. Look, it's family business, nothing you have to worry about.”

Oh, Henry's going to worry about it all right.

“You should take a few days off,” he says. “You look like cat puke.”

“Thanks,” Declan says wryly.

There was a time when Henry admired him. He still does, to a certain extent. Declan Lynch cuts a powerful figure. He's tall with muscular arms, dark hair, and a face made for winning admirers. To the outside world, he is an upstanding son, an excellent student, a man about to take on the world.

It is a beautiful lie. Declan's dreams died the day his father did.

Henry doesn't pretend to know Declan's life. He does know Niall Lynch was murdered, possibly over a deal gone wrong, certainly over a magical item, and left splattered across his own driveway. When Niall's wife fell into a coma, Declan was the only one left to take over.

Has the murderer come back for more? You would think the Lynchs would have fled after what happened, not stayed close by. Ah, but there's a reason most people don't let eighteen-year-olds decide things. It isn't Henry's business anyhow, unlike Declan's face being an entirely wrong set of colors.

"You will tell me if I am to become involved?" he asks.

Declanscowls at him. "No one's interested in Deokman's son, I promise you."

* * *

 

Henry closes the back door slowly, willing the hinges not to creak. He crosses the floorboards carefully, making sure to avoid the noisiest ones. He has a hand on the railing when someone clears their throat.

SickSteve is lying on the couch, watching him.

He shifts, sitting up, the blanket on top of him sliding down to pool at his hips. SickSteve's face contorts into an expression Henry thinks might be disgust.

“I can never tell whether you think you're good at keeping secrets or if you honestly think we're this stupid,” he says.

“You're talking but I have no idea what about,” Henry tells SickSteve, his face growing hot. It’s not like Henry's sleeping with Declan. They're associating because they have to. Outside of Kavinsky, they're the only ones who have a hope of understanding each other.

It’s not like Henry can tell SickSteve their parents used to deal illegal magical artifacts or that Declan's taken his father's place and Henry is Seondeok's eyes on the ground. Livelihoods depend on keeping those truths hidden.

So why does he feel so guilty?

SickSteve hisses, a low, angry sound, before looking away.

“Whatever, man. It's your life.”

Henry goes upstairs. Despite his immediate emotional reaction, he does not take SickSteve's words to heart. Out of all his followers, SickSteve is the most irritable, the angriest, the most prone to pointing out faults others would let slip. He is a contentious beast, fun to be around when he's in a good mood, wretched when he's not.

It is certainly not as though SickSteve's problems are personal and he's just venting. Conservative parents, sexual repression, stifling home life. It's all very obvious, if you know to look.

Besides, Henry will not apologize for coming home late to someone who doesn't even live here.

* * *

 

Henry doesn't have time for this today.

Kavinsky's sitting with his legs spread in an obvious power stance. It’s overkill, made more so by Prokopenko, who’s sitting on the floor, legs folded beneath him and arms clasped loosely around Kavinsky’s ankle. His temple rests against Kavinsky's thigh. His expression is mild, less concerned with the proceedings than with Kavinsky's proximity and mood. Kavinsky's hand grips the back of his neck.

Henry feels queasy and a little intrigued.

Prokopenko blinks excruciatingly slowly. If he doesn't want to be where he is, he isn't showing it.

“He's a pretty thing, isn't he?” Kavinsky asks, turning Prokopenko’s head this way and that.

Henry doesn't think so.

“Sure,” he says. “Listen, K.”

“Or is Jiang more your speed? Skov? You do like your boys white.”

Henry bites his tongue to keep from saying anything. What Kavinsky’s playing at is a debt Henry doesn’t want to take on. Kavinsky’s followers- they’re teenagers and Kavinsky’s willing to pimp them out, partly to humiliate them, partly to ingratiate a fellow player.

Kavinsky is a sick man.

“What can I do for you, Cheng?” Kavinsky asks.

This is a courtesy call. There are bloodhounds sniffing around Henrietta. How Henry wishes they didn't have to do this in person. But Henry's secrets are too important for a missent text or an overheard call, so this is how it is. He tells Kavinsky as much.

There's a bang and laughter from upstairs. Kavinsky’s court is rarely far.

“And?” Kavinsky asks.

“And nothing. Watch your back. Or don't. It’s not me they're after.”

Kavinsky leans forward, his grin morphing into a leer.

“Who is it they're after?”

“Not a who. A what. Something that's never existed. I assume you’re familiar with that sort of thing.”

Kavinsky's hands clench and Prokopenko winces. Kavinsky softens his grip and soothes the back of his neck. Prokopenko relaxes.

“Share with the class?”

“Ask the Lynch brothers. I've nothing more to tell you.” That’s not quite true. There are many things Henry could tell Kavinsky. What he wants to tell him number far fewer.

* * *

 

On June 29th, Kavinsky asks to meet. Henry relays this missive to Seondeok, who urges him to go. The feeling that something might happen has not gone away.

Henry is nothing more than his mother's pawn. He feels that truth more strongly every day, understands now that this arrangement could encompass his entire future if he doesn't change something soon.

At the moment, he's still her pawn. So he goes.

He's admitted into Kavinsky's inner sanctum, an upper floor room and not the den where they usually meet.

There was an American president, Lyndon B. Johnson, who held meetings in the bathroom. There are those who interpret this as efficiency, a man too harried by his office to do a single task at a time. Henry has always interpreted it as a clever stratagem. Johnson's bathroom meetings put his companions at a disadvantage. They were made uncomfortable by the breach of social etiquette and Johnson gained the upper hand.

Henry very much doubts Kavinsky has ever read up on the American presidents but discomfiting his rivals is something he has long excelled at.

He expects to find Prokopenko with Kavinsky, one or both most likely naked, together on Kavinsky's bed.

He’s wrong. It's not Prokopenko at K’s side today but Swan. This...is not an optimal situation. It's always a power play with Kavinsky but Prokopenko’s a willing participant. Swan is, well, _untamed_. He is only just under K’s command and it's a precarious command, that.

Henry would have it known that he does not like this game.

Kavinsky's hand lies atop Swan's knee. He's curling his fingers just enough that there’s the threat of nails digging into flesh, of violence. With Kavinsky, there’s always violence.

Swan’s eyes flash but he doesn't push Kavinsky's hand away.

“What do you want, Kavinsky?” Henry asks.

“Tell me, Cheng, why does Declan Lynch want me to stay away from his brother?” Kavinsky's smile turns wolfish. He taps a finger against Swan's full lips. “Scratch that. I’ve got a better question: what exactly is your connection to the Lynch family?”

_Why would I tell you?_

_There is none._

The two answers wage war in Henry's mind.

Swan snaps his teeth centimeters from Kavinsky’s finger and the two grin at each other, fierce, wild, and free.

“No?” Kavinsky asks. He's talking to Swan, who has just picked Kavinsky's hand off of his thigh.

Swan looks at him. There's a world of meaning in Swan’s looks and Henry’s never learned to interpret them. Whatever Kavinsky sees must be acceptable because he only moves his hand a fraction of an inch.

Henry hopes he's not meant to interpret this as a metaphor. If even Swan bows before the king, Henry won't hold out for long.

He'll hold out forever.

Keeping his judgmental eyes on Henry, Swan’s dark fingers trail up Kavinsky's inner thigh. Henry decides it is past time for him to be making his exit.

Though he didn't know it at the time, this image was to be the last Henry would ever have of Joseph Kavinsky: powerful, commanding, but with some things still out of his control. Henry supposes it isn't the worst he could have.

Because Seondeok was wrong. It wasn't the last week of June Henry needed to stay through- it was the first week of July.


	11. Chapter 11

"How is my son?" the woman who calls herself Seondeok asks.

"His grades are excellent," Mrs. Woo says. "He has many followers."

Seondeok chuckles, high like a girl.

"That is good news."

"Did you need something, Mrs. Cheng? Your payment for the month has already cleared."

"No, no," Seondeok says. "I merely wanted to check in."

"And now you have."

There is little love lost between Mrs. Woo and her boarder's mother. Mrs. Woo knows Seondeok's type: parents who view their children as extensions of themselves and their desires. Perhaps, on some level, Seondeok cares for her son's mental wellbeing- material is out of the question with money like that- but she is vastly more interested in what she stands to gain from having him here.

Mrs. Woo did not open her home to student boarders simply to have them be prizes on their parents' shelves.

When she started this, she didn't set out to destroy traditional family values. Toxic masculinity, macho culture, gender roles, yes. Family values, no. It just so happens that the latter is tied up in the former and years of helping raise stifled, unhappy teenage boys has shown her how deep the poison goes.

How her husband would tremble if he could see her now. He would quiver in fear at what she has become, this strange bastion of change, of hope, of a new way of living.

Mrs. Woo is raising boys to respect women and themselves and yet, most of Henrietta remains completely oblivious.

* * *

 

Mrs. Woo has been a fixture of Henrietta longer than anyone can remember. She's easy to overlook, a diminutive crone who spends too long reading the backs of boxes in the grocery store and arguing with beleaguered employees over prices. For who knows how many years, she's lived in the Victorian in the center of town, just her and the raven boys she boards.

Aglionby hates her. She's quarrelsome and cantankerous, apt to send long letters detailing the legal paradigms that prevent the school from enforcing the racist policies it wants. She grew up in the midst of war and social upheaval. These men don't scare her.

Not that many men do.

The town of Henrietta has been trying to buy the Victorian off her for years. Once a year, they send a letter with a buyout price and the politely veiled threat of eminent domain. Once a year, she politely informs the city council that, should they try, her lawyers would be very interested in pursuing a discrimination suit.

Her reluctance to give the old Victorian up has inspired rumors.

Some say she means to keep that house as a warning to Aglionby: this is no longer just a white man's game.

Some say the house has sentimental value. It's where she raised her children and dozens of schoolboys. The house has become a symbol of the people she loves.

Some say Mrs. Woo was married once and she will never leave that house, not while her husband's bones lie hidden under the floorboards.

More than one of these rumors is true.

"In 1959, I married your uncle," she tells Marcus, her youngest nephew. She remembers whenJennyhad him, just the right age, not too young, not too old. He's a good boy, smart, driven to succeed. She suspects, if it weren't for his situation, he would have an easy life. "He was a serviceman at the time, working out of Chinhae. More honorable than some, he had me and no one else. After the war, we moved here. He was out of the military by that time. We had a son together. It was a good life.

"Then one day, I came home with the groceries and he was gone." She takes a sip of her barley tea to signal the end of the story.

It is not the end, of course. No story ends so neatly.

The neighbors remember Mrs. Woo sitting on her porch day after day, waiting for her husband to come back. Her son remembers a place set for years for a man who would never return.

Young-jin, one of her quietest, most respectful boys, sat down next to her one day many years later and said, "You needn't move them but it might be better to burn the remains."

She added a garden to her backyard that spring and mixed the ashes with the dirt, sat back on her haunches, wiped her forehead, and said, "Yes, this was a good idea."

He was a fine boy, that one. He passed away a few years ago in a freak accident, fell off the roof while cleaning his gutters. Mrs. Woo didn't go to the funeral.

After the war, after she buried three generations of her family, she promised the next funeral she attended would be her own. She has enough ghosts for one lifetime.

Mr. Woo, you see, didn't disappear after his death. Mrs. Woo tried to banish him, brought in people to do exorcisms, even went to the fortune-tellers who lived on Fox Way. What could they do, after all? The authorities would never believe them.

One, a big, black woman, told her she would never truly be rid of him if she stayed in that house.

Another, a white woman with cotton-cloud hair, said that salt and local herbs would do the trick.

A third, a brown woman gravid with pregnancy, pressed a fist to the small of her back and said, "Good for you. He got what he deserved."

It was on her way out that a girl of perhaps five or six ran up behind her. The child grabbed her hand and tugged on it until Mrs. Woo knelt to look her in the face. The child smiled with crooked teeth and said, "We don' touch people who don' wanna be touched."

"No," Mrs. Woo said, resisting the urge to pat the little girl's fluffy hair. "We don't."

"Don' worry," the girl said, fingers in her mouth, giggling. "He'll be gone soon. Ghosties don't last long."

She was right, the young fortune-teller. Mr. Woo's moans and bangings had grown quieter over time. One day, not too long after she visited Fox Way, the noises stopped and never started again.

The perennials in the garden grew and grew, fed by the ashes of a bad man. Mrs. Woo's son grew up believing his father was a deadbeat, a flunkee, and a scoundrel. Raven boys came and went, Mrs. Woo sending out letters to prominent Vancouver families, telling them to send their boys to Henrietta, to Virginia, the home of eight American presidents and hundreds of influential people. It is only an hour from Washington, barely more to Fairfax. Here they can excel. Here there is hardly any trouble to be had.

Mrs. Woo doesn't think she'll be leaving Henrietta anytime soon.


	12. Chapter 12

On July 4th, 2013, Joseph Kavinsky's empire falls.

Henrietta is in shock for twenty-four hours. Then the whispers start coming in.

_Always knew that guy was trouble._

_Good riddance._

_He was a raven boy. What did you expect?_

Henry offers only the most banal of opinions. _You play with fire, you get burned._

He doesn't mention the monsters in the sky or the fact that the human-shaped thing called Prokopenko has fallen into a coma with no medical cause. Henry wasn't there. Ryang was. So was Koh. They tell more than enough.

Henry tells Seondeok in quiet, indifferent terms that Kavinsky is no more, he pulled himself out of the game. She likely already knows but. He likes to feel useful. So he tells her.

He grows uneasy with the thought of who will take his place.

Because someone has to. Power vacuums are their own danger and Henrietta is full of hungry boys. None so talented as Kavinsky but talented nonetheless.

When Henry returns to Henrietta, people talk. They whisper, _did you hear what happened this summer? It was sick, man. I wasn't there but let me tell you all about it._

Henry's followers are unconcerned by the events of this summer. It's senior year. This is the year they'll get their college acceptance letters, the year they'll know the course trajectory of the rest of their lives. Kavinsky means as much to them as he ever did, which is to say nothing at all.

They slip into the new school year seamlessly. Henry feels lost, adrift. He steps onto campus and realizes he's more alone than he has been in a long time.

Declan is gone. He's graduated and left for DC, ready to make it on his own.

Kavinsky, of course, is no more.

 _What am I watching out for anymore?_ Henry wonders. _There's no one here._

Well.

There's Gansey.

But that's a whole other kind of watching.

* * *

 

Henry's late. Okay, he's not really late. But he's not as early as he hoped, not here before the guys or even all the teachers, certainly not before 6 a.m., and there goes half his credibility.

The signs are out, the boys already arrayed in their set places. They look good, powerful against the mist rising off the grass. Student protesters, poised to make a difference.

"Who's that?" Henry asks Rutherford, who doesn't look half as bright eyed and bushy-tailed as Ryang or Koh. Cheng2's on his second Red Bull. Lee-Squared's splitting a bagel with SickSteve, who more seems to be holding his half and contemplating the confluence of his and its shared existence than eating.

Rutherford grunts. He's trying a new hairstyle. Henry's not sure he likes it. Very Justin Bieber. "New Latin teacher. Mr. Greenmantle."

"What?" Henry had to have heard that wrong.

"Greenmantle," Rutherford repeats. "Super history buff or something. Ask, uh, L2. I don't take Latin."

Henry doesn't either. He reminds himself to relax. Greenmantle is only a name, and names can be shared by many people.

He checks his watch. 6:15.

"Alright, people," he says. "Showtime."

* * *

 

It was an accident, a lack of foresight. The slate was poorly secured on the scaffolding and stacked too high. It was bound to fall.

Slate is heavy. A single shingle would be enough to knock a man out. As much as fell that day would have killed one.

If it had touched anyone at all.

* * *

 

 _Am I something more?_ Henry asks himself. He’s sitting, staring at his hands. _Or am I just a teenage nobody?_

He’s not nobody. He’s one of the best kids in class, likely salutatorian since SickSteve has designs on valedictorian and Henry struggles to get B’s in his math classes. Numbers are not his friends.

He doesn’t have friends.

He’s a little drunk.

It's just- Henry's been trying so hard all these years to be _something more_. He's been a good son, doing everything Seondeok asks of him, going to Kavinsky, talking to Declan, keeping track of who comes in and goes out of Henrietta. He's done everything he's supposed to and where has it gotten him? Mooning over Richard Campbell Gansey III, who's never shown any interest in him above the polite. _Gansey_ would rather spend his time with _Ronan_ Lynch, the _least_ interesting Lynch, than with Henry.

Henry won't begrudge Gansey Parrish's company. Now that he knows, now that he's seen, Henry wants to spend time with Parrish, too. But he won't say it doesn't rankle, just a little, when poor, white trash Adam Parrish, already so smart, already so driven, becomes _something more_ without him noticing.

Henry feels 80 percent bad about thinking this; he’s not a monster. Parrish’s home life is atrocious. He’s dotted with bruises on good days and he doesn’t show up on bad. He pays his way through school somehow and doesn’t take handouts. His clothes are secondhand.

It’s not a good life. Henry doesn’t want it.

But then Parrish deflects a ton of slate, forms a perfect circle around him, and Henry’s covered in dust, staring, because, two months ago, Parrish could not have done that.

Somehow, Oliver Twist had tapped into _more._

And Henry is immensely, intensely jealous.

Henry goes to take another sip of his beer and finds it empty. He moves to stand up, ostensibly to get another from the fridge and tilts forward into Mrs. Woo's carpet.

“Whoa, there, big man on campus,” Ryang says, helping him up.

“You think he's had enough?” Koh asks. He’s kneeling next to Ryang, not looking worried so much as amused.

“Hell yeah,” SickSteve chimes in.

“I'm half Korean,” Cheng slurs, “I can hol’ my liquor.”

“Yeah, and right now you're half alcohol,” Cheng2 mutters, taking him by the waist and leading him...somewhere.

“Where’re we going?” Henry asks, leaning heavily into Cheng2’s side. Maybe a little too heavily since they stumble into a wall. And then the railing. And a few stairs. Henry’s having a _night_.

“ _You_ ,” Cheng2 says, “are going to bed. _I_ am going back downstairs.”

He leads Henry to his room. Henry flops onto the bed and groans as it jostles his full stomach. Cheng2 sighs and starts untying Henry’s shoelaces. He tugs Henry’s shoes off and drops them on the floor artlessly.

“I’m taking your pants off now,” Cheng2 says. Henry makes a rude noise. “Unless you’d prefer to sleep in them.”

Henry would not.

“Under the covers or on top?” Cheng2 asks. He’s really too good to Henry.

Henry tells him this. Cheng2 sighs again.

“You’re very drunk,” he tells Henry.

Henry bobs his head in agreement and groans when the motion makes his head swim.

“Don't die,” Cheng2 says, pulling a blanket over Henry and making sure there’s nothing blocking his nose or mouth. “There’s water on the night stand if you need it.”

Henry wants to stay he doesn’t think he will, he can deal with a hangover, but he’s passed out before Cheng2’s even left the room.

* * *

 

It takes longer than it should for Henry to meet Colin Greenmantle. Henry doesn't take Latin, only just knows that the last teacher split after a police investigation, so he spends the first few weeks of the fall term blissfully unaware of any disturbances in the force. Except for that one morning, the one that was eclipsed by Parrish's little show, Greenmantle's existence is a nonentity.

Because Henry has elected to avoid dead languages in favor of the language of love, he doesn't meet Professor Greenmantle until the fog is thick over the mountains. The grass is wet with dew and the mornings are filled with ice and firesmoke, the croaking calls of ravens, when Laumonier's son-in-law drops by his study hall. Henry's leaning over a desk, editing his student council petition with Koh and Rutherford. He's only distantly paying attention when Greenmantle asks Brigenshaw for a form and the other professor obliges.

"Thank you," Greenmantle says, rolling the form into a tube.

"You're very welcome," Brigenshaw replies. He adjusts his glasses with a slight frown at Greenmantle's mistreatment of school documents. "Was that all you needed, Colin?"

Colin. Greenmantle's first name is _Colin_.

Henry doesn't forget faces and he doesn't forget names. It's almost like he's been trained not to.

 _How could you let this happen?_ he types out to Seondeok but doesn't send because right then he starts to drown.

“Shit,” he hears Koh say distantly. "Somebody get Cheng2. And ice water.”

“Come on, man, sit,” Rutherford says, guiding Henry to the ground and putting his head between his legs. “You gotta breathe.”

Henry can't.

He's trying, oh, how he's trying, but the air won't come. He feels lightheaded, faint, like he's going to die right here and now.

How could Seondeok let this happen? How could Greenmantle be here? How, how, how?

Henry can't breathe. He can't think. He can't-

“Henry,” Cheng2 says, kneeling next to him. Henry looks up. “I need you to breathe for me.” He presses a cool bottle of water against Henry's cheek and Henry focuses on it, on Cheng2, on breathing.

“You're safe,” Cheng2 says. His voice is calm and steady, easy to focus on. “We're here.”

_I'm here._


	13. Chapter 13

Raven Day.

Henry could kiss Parrish, talented, terrifying Parrish, for giving him an in. He could hug the headmaster for continuing such an overwhelming tradition. He could immortalize the creators of Borden House's hidey hole for giving him the perfect excuse.

It is a convergence of perfect opportunities and when Henry invites Gansey, _Gansey_ , to a toga party last minute he accepts and brings his girl, too.

The girl part's a bit of a downer but she turns out to be cool. Gansey could have yelled at the top of his lungs that he was and always would be 100% straight and Henry wouldn't care.

He dreams about Richard that night and the night after, chalks it up to the suggestiveness of the guy's name and not the crush he's been nursing since freshman year. Not even being manhandled into Greenmantle's former lackey's car can spoil Henry's mood.

It's finally happening. Everything's coming together.

 _This_ is going to be Henry's year.


	14. Chapter 14

It's fucking cold.

Normally, Skov can handle the cold but normally he isn't sitting on the frost-covered ground under a copse of trees.

It's fucking cold.

Frozen leaves crunch under someone's feet. Skov stays where he is, facing forward.

"Are we going to have to start monitoring you, too?" Swan asks, the barest trace of amusement in his voice.

Skov scrubs his nose on the back of his hand and sniffs. "Nah," he says. "Memento mori, though, you know?"

"Memento mori," Swan repeats dubiously.

"Means 'think on death'."

"I know what it means. The cemetery's that way." He jerks his thumb east, like Skov doesn't know. Like he didn't buy the plot when Aunt Nadezhda put up her hands and wiped them clean of the whole affair. Skov's father had helped a little, lingering guilt or parental duty kicking in, but Skov could hear the relief in his and everyone else's voices in the days after.

"The cemetery's everywhere, man. Here, there," Skov points aimlessly, "every-fucking-where."

Swan picks his way through the leaves and fallen branches, the underbrush of a healthy, hateful forest. He stands next to Skov and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Weren't you the one who told me it was just a body?"

"You would have killed him if I hadn't."

"True." Swan moves to sit next to Skov. He grimaces when he can only find damp, icy foliage to sit on. Skov's still looking straight ahead. There's no marker but Skov knows he's in the right place. He's visited often enough. "This isn't healthy, Skov."

"Nope."

"You could at least visit the other one."

"Nope," Skov says again. He'd rather pretend. Under this patch of trees, time is meaningless. Out there, with names etched on tombstones and wilted flowers, reality is all too real. Here, at Proko's unmarked grave, the one he and Swan and Jiang dug in the pitch black of early morning, nothing is real. Death is impermanent, resurrection is possible, life is everlasting.

Swan's a hundred percent right: it isn't healthy. But it's nice to pretend. Because the second he leaves here, the real world will come crashing in, a world where Proko is asleep and Proko is dead and K is a cautionary tale for anyone who ever wanted more out of life.

"I'll drive you home," Swan offers. He wouldn't pass a breathalyzer test right now but Skov couldn't care less. He's too high to.

"What do you think about planting flowers?" Skov asks as they walk back to his car.

"What kind?"

"I dunno. Something sunny. Daffodils or irises. One of those ones that comes back every year."

"Perennials," Swan says. "Yes, we could do that. They wouldn't look too out of place here." He throws an arm around Skov's shoulder and allows Skov to lean into him. "I think he'd like that."

Swan says that but Skov's not so sure. These are his thoughts, his opinions on what Proko would have wanted, on what the forgery wants. They aren't based on anything Proko ever said. Skov wants Proko to have flowers, to have someone other than the three of them know where he is, what happened, why he's in a hospital. Jiang's running himself ragged looking for an impossible solution, Swan's given up hope, guilt is swamping Skov every fucking day, and Skov wants _someone_ to know why.

Jiang is dozing in the seat of his Supra when they reach the dirt road where Skov parked his car. Swan raps on his window. Jiang opens his narrow eyes sleepily and looks up at them.

"We're taking the RX-7," Swan says. "Are you good to get back on your own?"

Jiang rolls his shoulders in what might be a shrug. Swan leads Skov to his car. Skov goes along wordlessly.

The timelessness is fading, the material, secular world becoming more real. Skov tries to think about nothing and fails.

"I should go to the hospital," he tells Swan when they're halfway to the highway.

"Why? Nothing's worked so far."

"To keep him company. I figure he could use it."

Skov doesn't hear Swan's response. They're in disagreement over what to do with Proko. Swan is practical, not sentimental. Unless there's a chance they can wake him up, he sees no reason to visit.

But that's to be expected from someone who signed his own life away at thirteen.

* * *

 

Life after K is dull. Not simply boring but colorless, devoid of cheer and fun. There is no escape now, nothing extraordinary to push away reality, only nicotine and alcohol and weed.

People think Jiang was in it for the drugs? He was in it because he fell in like with a sleepy-eyed sadist and his companions, Ukrainian, Venezuelan, American. He was in it because they expected nothing more from him than to show up and not say no. He was in it because his roommate was Skov and the second sentence out of Skov's mouth, after _fuck, you're hot_ was _do you want to come to a party?_

Things used to be so colorful. Life used to be so easy.

What do you do when your king is dead? What do you say when your god is no more? How do you breathe when your lover is six feet under?

Proko got it easy. The second it happened, down.

That's what Jiang wants to believe. That's what he wants to say.

The truth is always so messy.

One second, two. A minute. A bitter smile. Proko knew. Had he always? A car hitting a wall. Had he accelerated? Had he slumped forward, foot pressing the pedal down, or had he taken it off, let the engine go its course?

If he had, there was hope. Had Proko known and had he said no, this isn't how it ends, then K wasn't necessary. Missed, wanted, _desired_ but not vital, not _crucial_.

There's a rumor going around that it was a suicide pact and K was the only one who managed to go all the way through with it. An awful rumor but clever. Insightful. Whoever started it knew them better than they knew themselves.

Proko must have known. He had to have.

Jiang won't accept anything else.

* * *

 

Skov's got his face buried between Swan's legs, mouth latched onto Swan's dick, fingers buried inside his hole. It's a rare and intoxicating sight, Swan giving up his reservations like this, letting someone touch him so intimately. Others have tried. Some have succeeded. Skov's the only one with the privilege to try again.

Swan's making these little breathy moans he'll deny later. They're beautiful, gorgeous sounds, but Swan hates them as much as he hates any sign of weakness.

Skov twists his fingers. Swan gasps. His back arches. His legs clench around Skov's head.

Jiang's supposed to be kissing Swan or cradling his face in his hands, something. Acting as an anchor Swan doesn't need. Instead, he's sitting on his knees with Swan's head in his lap, watching Skov.

It doesn't feel right, him being here. He's intruding. This is a moment for Skov and Swan alone. Jiang's a passive party, nothing more than a third wheel. Just like he's been since summer.

If Proko were here, if Kavinsky- it wouldn't be like this. Even if they weren't in the same room, even if they were off fucking or just dicking around, it wouldn't feel like this, Jiang not belonging. He's not crucial to Swan's and Skov's dynamic, never has been.

Sure, he's been Skov's roommate for years. He knows him better than most, knows his issues and interests, what makes him tick. Skov has always been an integral, albeit aggravating part of their group. K's blood brother, Proko's best friend, Swan's bedmate.

And that's the worst part, isn't it? Proko had K and Skov had Swan. Jiang was there for when they got bored and wanted to spice things up.

Jiang swallows. His mouth is sour with an emotion he can't bear to name.

When Jiang had first gotten together with Skov, he had thought, here is someone who won't choose someone else. Skov wasn't a looker- he had bright blue eyes and a nice body, muscles to hold Jiang and to cling to, but nothing that would ever make him anyone's first choice. He would have Jiang first and foremost.

Jiang had thought.

Then Swan started reciprocating and Proko started encouraging, and where did that leave Jiang? With the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth and no real reason to complain. K and Proko had been entangled since time began, Swan was Skov's number one, and Jiang, Jiang was just an amusement.

He blinks back stinging tears. This strain of pot always makes him so emotional. When it's out of his system, he'll feel normal again.

That's what he wants to believe.

"Jiang?" Swan gasps. He must be between orgasm one and two. Skov's record is wringing four out in the span of five minutes, a nifty little trick that owes more to Swan's anatomy than Skov's skill. Jiang's pretty sure Swan would have used Skov's head as a punching bag if he had tried for more. No refractory period, Swan once told Jiang, doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

"Mm?" Jiang replies.

"You okay, man?" Skov adds, looking at him from between Swan'sdark thighs.

Jiang gives them an unconvincing smile. "I'm just not feeling it tonight." He untucks his legs from under Swan's head and leans back against the headboard. "You guys go on without me."

They look confused, worried, but only for a moment. Then they slide back into each other, two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together, and Jiang is forgotten once more.

* * *

 

Skov hates hospitals.

The smells, the lights, the bare, boring walls. Little good ever happens in hospitals. Oh, births do and life-saving surgeries. But there's also death and disease and suffering, endless suffering of one kind or another.

A vague sense of worry is growing in the back of Skov's mind. Something bad's already happened. He searches his head, trying to remember what it is. Did he fail a test? Did Jiang look at him strange again? Did he remember, as he does every time he forgets to breathe, the first boy he ever loved going up in flames?

Skov rubs his hands over his face. He doesn't know. He just doesn't know.

A woman in the waiting room is weeping softly. She and her husband are taking their daughter off life support.

Skov won't take Proko off, not yet.

They gave him to him, Proko's family. That's a fucked up way to say it but they've known he isn't theirs for, what, two years now? They disavowed the forgery and he passed into K's hands and now Skov's. Much of what was K's became Skov's afterwards. Aunt Nadezhda stole the pills and Skov's parents picked through what they wanted but since then they've left his things untouched, leaving Skov to clear out his room and dispose of his unmentionables and sell piece by piece off to interested parties.

He haunts Aunt Nadezhda's home nowadays. His parents make him ill. Aunt Nadezhda's a sad husk of a woman. She may have despised her son but he gave her drugs and purpose, even dignity in a way. Now it's obvious she's hiding out, getting older and lonelier, unwilling to return to New Jersey and the life she once knew.

Skov understands her. He pities her. He doesn't like her.

It's not just K's father who was a terrible parent.

Skov groans and pushes the feelings away.

None of that matters now. K's gone. He won't be coming back.

Still, for Proko, there has to be a way. He's alive, isn't he? Some part of him exists without K. They just have to light a spark, jump his battery, and they'll have him back.

"You good?" he asks Jiang when he emerges with Swan in tow.

Skov knows he isn't, might never be again.

"It didn't work," Jiang says dejectedly. He sinks into the seat next to Skov. "I really thought it would this time."

Skov hadn't been optimistic. The talisman had cost Jiang a petty fortune. It was meant to wake the dead. Proko isn't dead. Ipso facto, no go.

Swan squeezes Jiang's arm. He meets Skov's tired eyes. Swan hadn't had any hope, either.

"We'll find a way," Skov assures Jiang, putting an arm around him. "It hasn't been that long. We just have to keep looking."

When Jiang isn't looking, Skov slips his hand in his pocket and sends a text to Declan Lynch: _Fuck. You._

* * *

 

"We could," Swan says, his words slow and careful. Jiang's asleep on his bed, chest rising and falling in the sweetest way, and it is only because of that that Swan's willing to say these words, "ask Lynch for help."

"You saw where that got us. His stuff doesn't work."

"I meant the other one."

Ronan.

Skov grimaces. They've had nothing to do with him since the summer. Their aversion to him has only grown since Gansey's entanglement with Cheng, which is disturbing in and of itself. 

"It's only a thought."

"You know he would never help us."

"He'd do a lot for that brother of his."

Skov considers that. K had been right to pinpoint Matthew. It was obvious now why but even Skov hadn't realized Lynch's dim-witted brother was a dream.

"It can be a last resort. Declan might still pull through."

Swan's wry expression says he doubts it.

"Valquez is going to be in town next week," Swan says, changing the subject.

Skov glances at Jiang, who's still out. Swan's sponsor is no secret but he feels like one. Not to mention, Jiang's been sleeping an awful lot lately and not all his dreams are good ones. Skov doesn't want to give him anything else to stress over. "What for?"

"There's a sale. Piper Greenmantle is hosting. Rumor has it, the item is ultra-rare. One of a kind."

Skov frowns. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"Greenmantle? Or Valquez?" Swan is amused by his own joke. "Laumonier's daughter."

"Does Valquez want you to go?"

"Of course not."

"What's he want, then?"

Swan's eyes turn swiftly dull. "What do you think?"

"You haven't missed a payment," Skov asserts. Swan is hedgy about it, doesn't like to discuss his monetary situation with them.

Once a quarter, money is deposited in Swan's mother's account. Most she sends to her son, a fraction she keeps for herself. Three years ago, it had been a payment. Now it's a loan.

The interest rate keeps rising. For a time, Swan could keep it down by helping K bring in new customers. Now, without K, he can only do so much.

Skov chips in but every repayment means another month has gone by and more bills, tuition, and doctor's visits have been added to the total.

Jiang could help but Swan won't ask Jiang. He only admitted it to Skov after Valquez's goons came to rough him up and found two teenagers in Swan's room instead of one.

"I haven't."

"Then what-"

"Word's gotten out," Swan says, cutting Skov off. "There's something big here. He thinks I've been holding out."

"You did everything he told you to do."

Swan smiles coolly. "Things change. I am not asking for help." Of course not. Why would Swan ask for help? He wants to appear strong and in charge, not like the kind of person who would make a deal with the devil to get the medical treatment he so desperately wanted. "Piper Greenmantle is holding a sale. Valquez will be there. So will Laumonier and Seondeok. I vote we try to sell some things."

Sell directly. That's what Swan is saying. Declan Lynch has not gotten them what they want. There's a possibility someone among the high rollers could offer a solution to one of their problems, if not both.

"Not Valquez," Skov says.

"Not Valquez," Swan agrees. "Nor Seondeok."

Skov can concede that one. Valquez doesn't keep his word and Cheng is unlikely to appreciate direct dealings with the queen.

"Laumonier, then?"

"Or Mackey. I have to go," Swan says, though the sun's not up yet. He grabs his backpack and stands up. "The RA will be furious if he finds the room empty again." Skov doesn't protest. Housing has cracked down on Swan this year. Another write-up could mean Swan loses his place at the school.

Swan leans down and brushes his lips against Jiang's forehead. Jiang stirs but doesn't wake. Swan kisses Skov full on the mouth, a move that's almost chaste for them.

"Get some sleep," he tells Skov.

"You know I won't." Skov hasn't gotten a full night's sleep since July.

"Try," Swan says, hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning."

"I love you," Skov says.

A genuine smile spreads across Swan's face. "I know."

* * *

 

In the end, they go back to Declan. He doesn't pull through. He takes Matthew and he goes underground, becoming untraceable after a week. He's in D.C., then Atlanta, then he's gone.

Jiang's preparing to swallow his pride and grovel at Lynch's feet when a most unexpected thing happens.

Henry Cheng makes an offer.

* * *

 

Henry’s starting to think he’s not a decoy. He’s bait.

Colin Greenmantle’s left town but his wife's still here. Rumor has it, she's found something worth selling. One fuckup and Laumonier’s daughter will be on to him, on to RoboBee.

Henrycan't take that chance.

He corners Jiang in the halls because Jiang’s the easiest to overlook, the one people are least likely to say, why’s Henry with him?

Bunch of fucking racists, this school.

“I need you to keep a secret,” he says and Jiang’s eyes rake over him, disinterested, always disinterested.

“Why would I do that?” Jiang asks.

“It means I’d owe you a favor,” Henry says.

Jiang doesn’t look at all intrigued.

“I know people,” Henry says. “I can get things.”

“You don’t have anything I’d want.”

“No? What about Prok-”

“Don’t say his name,” Jiang says, too fast, too quickly, and Henry’s got his attention now. “Don’t you dare fucking say his name.”

“I might be able to help him.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Like I said, keeping my secret. It’s a pretty big one, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“What, that fucking bee?”

Henry claps a hand over Jiang’s mouth and nearly loses his fingers in the process. “Yes, that bee,” he hisses.

“I’m not the only one who knows," Jiang says.

“The offer’s for all of you. Or I can make separate offers. Bargain. I’m good at that.”

“You’re really not.” Jiang’s nostrils flare. His eyes flick away, then back again. “I’ll talk it over with them. No promises, though.”

* * *

 

“Is there an artifact,” Henry asks Seondeok, “that can bring someone back to life? What if that person isn’t dead? What if that person was never really alive?”

“I’ll look,” she says but now Henry knows one of her sources better than she does. RoboBee’s creator is gone and yet it persists, surely Prokopenko can’t be that hard to wake. 

But it’s not an easy thing to ask Lynch to do, either Lynch, any Lynch, and so Henry waits for Seondeok to do the work for him because fear lingers at the corner of his mind and he won’t give Kavinsky’s followers false hope.

"There is a possibility," Seondeok says several days later, "that such a thing exists."

"Is there a possibility you could acquire such a thing?" Henry asks his mother with as much care as he can muster. This is no easy thing to ask for. If such an artifact could be found, the price would be steep, even for her.

"How badly do you want this?" Seondeok asks.

"There are secrets on the line," Henry answers. "Yours."

"I see," she says.

He receives a package that very night.

* * *

 

“We’ll do it,” Skov says to Henry a few days before Piper Greenmantle is set to unveil her auction item. “We’ll keep your precious secret.”

 _Which one?_ Henry wants to ask but there's only a handful they could know and Kavinsky's former courtiers have never flaunted the impossible things he gifted them.

“You better start looking, though,” Skov adds mildly, an unpleasant smile crossing his face, “Swan's gonna kick your ass if you don't turn up with something soon. I mean, me, too, but Swan's been wanting to kick your ass since freshman year, so.” His smile widens. “Godspeed is what I’m saying.”

Henry doesn't need it. In less than a week's time, a certain group will gather in Henrietta for a sale of a most unusual item. When that time comes, Henry will be safely holed up in Litchfield House, far away from the excitement, Seondeok's identity secured.

If only he could feel this secure all the time.

* * *

 

Jiang has nightmares sometimes, strange, amorphous dreams that end in fire and burning human flesh. He chokes on the smoke, gags on the smell, and that's how he wakes up, Skov shaking him, pulling him into his arms, saying, "You're alright, you're alright, you're alright." 

Jiang knows he's alright. The nightmares are just memories. They won't be happening again. K's gone and his dragons are, too.

It begs the question, though: who is Jiang without Kavinsky?

You expected him to say without either of them, didn't you? But Jiang's survived without Proko before and he could again. He doesn't _want_ to but he could. Kavinsky is another story.

Cheng is stupid. That's the truth of it. Had he ever managed to win Jiang over, he would have regretted it.

Well, Seondeok would have.

Seondeok wasn't the only one who had heard about strange happenings in Henrietta nor the only one wily enough to utilize the assets available to her.

Of course, Xia Weiguo had meant to keep tabs on the Kavinskys, not Kavin _sky_.

When he heard that Stankov planned to name his daughter next-in-line, Xia took one look at his deck and knew which card to play.

Why _not_ send the child no one knew about? There were no legal documents that would connect Jiang to his father, no public record of their association. Xia meant to keep tabs on a business rival and Stankov's daughter wasn't smart enough to recognize the boy Aglionby housing so conveniently placed with her "nephew".

Jiang never got put to any real use. He was never truly needed. Within a month, it became apparent Stankov's daughter was an ineffectual cokehead prone to ranting and delusions. She would certainly not be inheriting his empire. No, the real power in the family lay in the grandson but it wasn't his talents Xia was interested in, only K's willingness to tear his own family apart.

After last summer, Jiang thought he would be recalled to Tianjin. He would be thanked for his service, as little as it was, and be allowed to finish his studies in his own country, in his own tongue.

Instead, after a brief summer, he was sent back. Not to crush what was left of Mrs. Kavinsky's spirit, no. It was simply easier to pay for Jiang to stay in Henrietta, a place far enough away that he could do no damage to his father's name.

And so Jiang returned. Stankov's family was in ruins. K was no more. Proko would not wake. Swan and Skov didn't need him. He was here and he was without purpose.

Once again, who is Jiang without Kavinsky?


	15. Chapter 15

They remember June 3rd, 2012 very differently.

Jiang remembers the fire, the stench of singed hair, the burns blooming on Kavinsky's skin. He remembers being perfectly, completely untouched by those very same flames. 

Was it a dream? 

Logic says yes but logic had no place in Kavinsky's world.

Skov remembers the strongest and weakest person he's ever known refusing to be touched, refusing to leave the body's side.

Swan remembers a phone call at four a.m. and Jiang asking, "How strong is your stomach?"

Proko doesn't remember anything because, at that moment in time, he didn't exist.

* * *

Have you ever seen someone on fire? Not just their hair or clothes but immolation, consumption, burning to the point their body gives out?

Skov has. Twice, in fact.

The dragon got out once before. When they were little, blanket forts and sleepovers little, K used to tell Skov about it, this horrible nightmare that lurked inside his dreams. Skov hadn't understood why it scared him then. Dragons were cool. They flew on giant wings, they had massive claws, they breathed fire.

What Skov didn't know was that, when K was eight years old, his father doused a man in kerosene and lit him on fire. He made a spectacle of it. There were dozens of witnesses, K included. He never said whether he was supposed to be there, if his father clamped a hand on his shoulder and made him watch. Skov imagines he did. He imagines Kavinsky Sr. meant it to be a warning and K was just one more person to terrify.

Did the man deserve it? Possibly. Possibly not. He might have been a rival or a passerby, a down-on-his-luck bum or the biggest distributor of crystal meth in Trenton. It doesn't matter. All men burn the same.

All men.

Even after K replaced his dad, Aunt Nadezhda saying,  _look what you did, how could you do that, you must fix this, Yosif_ , the dragon remained. If anything, it grew worse, larger, less friendly, taking on aspects of a man who no longer existed.

The dragon got out twice.

Once the day K died.

And once the summer he turned seventeen.


	16. Chapter 16

Henry opens the front door of Litchfield House. A couch cushion goes whizzing past, narrowly missing clocking him in the head. 

Henry sighs.

"What are they fighting about this time?" Henry asks Rutherford. He doesn't want to get involved in this. God, they just did this, what? Two days ago?

"Uh," Rutherford says. He's hiding behind the doorframe, looking nervous. "Honestly? Ryang called Koh stupid."

"I _said_ DITZY!" Ryang yells.

"Which means STUPID!" Koh yells back. "Which I'm not! You'd KNOW that if you spoke Korean! Emphasis on IF."

Ooh. Henry cringes in sympathy.

Ryang hisses and looks away. "That's a low blow and you know it."

Henry chooses not to translate Koh's reply. Ryang's gotten the gist of it.

"Oh, fuck you, Jinho," he says. "Fuck you to hell."

Koh looks to Henry for support.

Henry holds up his hands. "I'm not getting involved in this. In fact, Rutherford and I are leaving now. Right? Right."

Rutherford has never looked so relieved. He follows Henry out the front door. Henry swipes the wallet he'd forgotten (got to have money; makes life surprisingly easier, money) off one of the side tables in the hallway.

There is an awkward moment when they're standing outside, twiddling their thumbs, Henry looking for a polite way to part ways.

"Do you want to get a bite to eat?" Rutherford asks in a bid to break the silence

"I can't." Henry says. "I've already made plans."

"Oh," Rutherford says. "Okay. Another time, maybe?"

"Perhaps," Henry says. He waves goodbye to Rutherford before getting on his bike and heading out.

He has a man to see about a forest.

* * *

 

Henry has settled easily into Gansey's crowd. Parrish and Lynch didn't take a quick liking to him but then Henry did handcuff Parrish to keep him him from, oh, mutilating everybody. And, hey, they're dating, which is excellent news for Henry. Also incredibly surprising but who's Henry to judge? No one.

Blue is increasingly a surprise, too, though far more wonderful than Aglionby's brightest and bleakest sucking face. She calls herself mirror. The term is charged when she says it, elicit and wonderful.

And then there is the main man: Richard Campbell Gansey III.

Gansey is an angel, a saint, a god. He is beauty upon beauty, well-formed, well-spoken, well-known. And now Henry is known. He is understood in a way he never was before, appreciated as no one has ever appreciated him.

Life is fantastic, magical because of Gansey.

There is a slight downside. Gansey's not quite the same as before. Resurrection will do that to a person. But who cares? Not Henry. Nor Blue or Adam or Lynch.

He is known.

* * *

 

"They're really laying into each other lately, aren't they?" Henry asks Rutherford. Koh and Ryang are fighting again, and Henry had to save Rutherford once more but it's turning out okay. He and Rutherford are sitting at the only decent diner in town, eating tuna fish sandwiches, Henry's treat. The sandwiches are horrible, processed atrocities, though not altogether untasty.

"Uh, yeah," Rutherford says. He's got a serious abrasion on his arm, like he scraped it across concrete or stucco. Henry has never paid much attention to what Rutherford gets up to in his free time. He thinks he skateboards or dirtbikes, one or the other. Something involving the X Games or Tony Hawk (neither of these words have much meaning for Henry; he bandies them about the same way he does the People's Choice Awards and Kim Kardashian, things only tangentially connected to his existence and of no general importance to anyone). Whatever it is Rutherford's into, it's somewhat physical and prone to causing cuts and bruises.

"And to think, I thought they were good friends."

"Oh, they are," Rutherford says. _Oh, ah, um._ He's so unprofessional, so deferential in his speaking. Get some confidence, man. "I think it's, uh, something else that's bothering them."

"Like what?"

"Nothing! Sorry," Rutherford interjects quickly. Henry resists the urge to sigh. Another fault Rutherford has: he apologizes too much. He needs reassurance that everything he's doing isn't wrong. "N-nothing's bothering them. Everyone fights sometimes, right?"

"Possibly. Some people certainly. Ryang is rather sensitive about his language skills, though, so I did not expect Koh to bring them up again."

"Is he?" Rutherford asks. "Smarter in Korean?"

"Yes," Henry replies. "Of course. However, I would not say he's stupid in English or at all. Airheaded, perhaps. Flighty. Stupid, no."

"Would you, um, say you're smarter in Korean?"

"Words," Henry says before taking a big bite of his sandwich, "are not my forte."

* * *

 

Henry has decided, senior or not, he is going to get perfect grades in math this year. Even if he's just taking Algebra 2, he _will_ ace it. He is going to be the best at math. Parrish- no, _Adam_ has promised to tutor him.

Okay, so what really happened is Henry said, _why are you working three jobs, Adam Parrish?_ and Adam said, _we can't all be made of money, Cheng_ , and Henry said, _not my question_ , and Lynch said, _because he doesn't take handouts_ and Henry said, _Adam Parrish, you're good at math right? I am in dire need of a tutor_ and, after some negotiations, Adam said, _fine_.

There may have been some expletives involved.

This is all very important because doing well in math means Henry actually understanding what's going on in math which means Henry has time to pay attention to things other than math in the class of said math. For example, his fellow math sufferers.

"Hello, Jiang," Henry says, nodding to the boy with his cheek pressed to his desk. Jiang looks beyond exhausted. It's a terminal thing with him now- bags under his eyes, sleeping in class, slow reaction time. The words come unbidden to Henry's mind: _hey, man, buddy, boyo, maybe you should cut back on the partying if you want to graduate on time._

"What do you want, Cheng?"

"Nothing. Just saying hello. Thought you could use a friendly face, seeing as you don't have too many of those anymore." Even as he says them, it dawns on Henry that these are not the words he wants coming out of his mouth.

Jiang curls his lip and looks away.

"I didn't mean for it to come out like that," Henry says quickly.

"Just shut up, Cheng."

Henry doesn't speak to Jiang for the rest of the class.

He does, however, speak to him two days later when they have math again, as well as the time after that and the time following. Jiang looks to be in a slump. Henry figures if he can get him engaged, he can get him back on track to graduate. Sure, it's not a lofty goal but the guy came here to learn, didn't he? He can't possibly want to get kicked out on top of all his other problems.

* * *

 

The world started to go sideways after Gansey dies.

He wasn't quite the same afterwards. He still feared death but he no longer expected it at every turn.

No one but the five of them knew what happened and mostly, no one else seemed to notice the change.

It's fine, it's fine. A guy just died and got resurrected, no big deal. A flock of ravens lead Henry and Gansey to the tomb of a long dead, long missing Welsh king, the Braveheart of his time. Discovery of the century. Whatever.

Gansey did a few interviews, gave strained replies to questions about what he would do now that he'd found his king. A middle-aged British man flew in and he and Gansey spend a few days driving around, discussing the letdown.

Gansey, it seemed, really thought his king would be alive.

"What were you going to do if he was?" Henry asked. Blue raised a hand to her mouth in a silent, sorrowful gasp. Gansey's face wavered, his old money mask threatening to slip. Lynch gripped Henry's shoulder hard and told Gansey the two of them were going to have a little chat.

"Um, okay," Henry said. He was all but dragged from the room and down a set of stairs to the dusty first floor of Gansey's domain. Parrish had followed Lynch and it was him, due to years of association with Declan, whom Henry feared more.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Parrish asked, his eyes cool and disinterested. It was a fair assessment to say Parrish did not enjoy Henry's presence, not then or at any other time.

"I believe in ESP. Whether you consider ghosts part of that-"

"it's a simple yes or no."

"Sure," Henry said. "Yeah. Yes. _Sí_. I do."

"Does the name Noah Czerny mean anything to you?" Parrish asked.

It sounded vaguely familiar. Like turning on the news and hearing about some groundbreaking scientist winning an award and remembering, just barely, hearing the name years before.

Lynch looked at Parrish. Parrish looked at Lynch.

"This would be easier if he weren't such a dipshit," Lynch said.

"Hey! I will have you know I am in the top 10% of our class. Which you," he pointed at Lynch, "most definitely are not. Are you even still in school? Haven't you dropped out already?"

The corner of Parrish's mouth twitched upwards. "Gansey won't let him."

"Oh, fuck you, Adam," Lynch said.

"It's true," Parrish replied.

Henry looked back and forth between them, trying to figure out what Gansey's mood has to do with ghosts and someone named Noah Czerny.

“So...Noah?” Henry asked.

Their bickering stopped.

“He is-"

"Was," Lynch corrected gruffly.

"-a friend of ours.”

"I'm sorry," Henry said. He didn't mean it, in truth. It sucked that they lost a friend but he didn't know the guy.

The name lingered in his mind. It was familiar. Noah Czerny. Noah Chair-Knee. Noah-

"Henrietta police charged Aglionby teacher Barrington Whelk in connection with the murder of Noah Czerny," Henry recited. He read that in the paper. The article had been of some interest but it was a glimpse of Gansey's name that kept him reading.

Parrish and Lynch were watching him.

"Police said Aglionby's own Richard Campbell Gansey III and a Mountain View student discovered the remains while out hiking."

The watching intensified.

"Noah Czerny disappeared seven years ago," Henry asserted, looking between them, trying to discover what he was missing. Noah Czerny disappeared. Seven years ago. Noah Czerny was their friend.

Noah, Parrish and Lynch inform him, was dead. He'd been dead for almost eight years.

Well. Magic was magic was magic and you didn't need to be magic to believe in ghosts.

* * *

 

“Hey, man,” Cheng2 says. He’s jittery and loose with his words, Henry’s favorite forever and always, hopped up on too many energy drinks to deal with the fact that he hasn't slept since Monday. Cheng2 taps Henry’s forehead, once, twice, thrice. “Where’ve you been lately?”

The answer, of course, is with Gansey. Henry’s been with Gansey and his court, chasing after new forms of magic. It’s dizzying, their world. It’s fascinating, seeing a better leader with his followers. It’s exciting, going toe-to-toe with someone who understands him so well.

Henry just wishes he could bring Cheng2 along.

Henry wants to go back to their first meeting, rewrite history so his and Cheng2’s roles aren’t so clearly delineated. Leader and follower. Prince and attendant. Master and servant.

How does Gansey do it? How did Kavinsky? They both had their dogs but they let them have teeth, let them get close and know their secrets. What Cheng2 doesn’t know about Henry is everything. Every last part of him that’s not Aglionby pretentiousness, gaudiness, gaucheness. That’s not all Henry is, that’s not who he is at heart, but he doesn’t have the words to fix this, to go back and make them friends.

“I’ve been busy,” Henry says. The lie comes easy as they always do and Cheng2 accepts it when all Henry wants is for him to call it for what it is.

* * *

 

February 14th, Blake Skovron pulls up next to Henry and rolls his passenger side window down.

“Get in,” he says.

Henry shuts the door behind him and resists the urge to wrinkle his nose. Skovron's car smells like stale beer and sweat.

Skovron himself is wearing just the most atrocious color combination, neon green and salmon pink and eye-searing yellow, snapback and popped collar and knee-high socks. Henry has walked out of the house in some questionable fashion choices but this is a piece of work.

“Word to the wise,” Skovron says, “stop fucking talking to Jiang. He doesn't like you.”

Henry scoffs. So sue him for trying to help Jiang get his life back on track.

“I'm serious. Which, by the way, how much are you?”

“About what?”

Skovron ignores the direct question. “How interested do you think certain people would be to find out Seondeok is, in fact, the mother of a certain Aglionby student? I'm going to guess a lot. So if you value that secret or any of the others swimming around in your head, you'll make good on your promise and soon.”

Henry had forgotten. Okay, he hadn't _forgotten_ forgotten but with Parrish getting possessed and Gansey doing a Lazarus and helping Lynch try to raise a goddamn child, testing out the efficacy of Seondeok's present had gone way down on the list of important things.

And call Henry terrible for thinking it, but he still needs Jiang, Skov, and Swan to keep it zipped on Seondeok. Who is to say the second he hands them the artifact, they won't tell everyone they know? One Laumonier dead means two Laumonier still kicking.

Caution, Henry would like to remind people, is not a bad thing.

“She's looking,” Henry lies.

“That's nice. Seems she could look a little harder, what with it being her name on the line.” Skov scratches his chin idly. “Here's a thought, why don't you go to the source? Now that you're buddy-buddy with our man Gansey.”

“Gansey isn’t the source.”

“Nah, he's just friends with it."

"Why do you even want this?" Henry asks. "It isn't like you haven't made do without Prokopenko before."

"Don't use him to assuage your guilt," Skov snarls.

"And what would I have to be guilty of?" Henry asks. "Or was it me who let K replace him?"

Skov looks away. When he looks back, his eyes are as hard as the ice they resemble. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I? Or is it normal for people to fall into comas following their leader's death?"

Skov grits his teeth. "Whatever, Cheng. The clock's ticking. You don't get this artifact by the end of the school year, we're coming for you."

"Deal was you keep my secret."

Skov smiles unpleasantly. "That was before you started messing with Jiang's head. Way I see it, you have nothing to lose taking your sweet time like this. So the stakes have been upped. If you try to run come June, I will hunt you down. You think your family's dangerous? You haven't met mine.

"Now get the fuck out my car. I don't want to be seen with you.”

Henry doesn't want to be seen with Skov, either.

“Oh, and Cheng?” Skov says, making Henry pause, hand on the door handle. “You want to talk to us, you come to me. Not Swan, not Jiang. Me.”

Henry rolls his eyes. Fucking white people. Thinking they own every minority they come across. “You’re never going to be Kavinsky.”

Skov's expression darkens. “No. But I protect what's mine, and right now? You're a threat."


	17. Chapter 17

SickSteve tosses his backpack onto ML's bare mattress. He flops down on his own bed and pulls his English textbook towards him, staring at it for a few moments before letting it fall to the floor.

The room feels incredibly empty.

Strange as he was, SickSteve misses his ex-roommate. He's transferred out, moved to live with his eldest brother.

A month ago, when he was still here, SickSteve would have said he did not like his roommate. He would have said he was the weirdest, creepiest fucking dude in existence.

More than once, SickSteve has woken up to find ML staring at him. Just sitting up in his bed, back to the wall, staring at him. When SickSteve asked why, he said he couldn't sleep, he could almost never sleep.

Except he did, all the time. ML would be doing homework and suddenly he'd pass out, just slump into his papers, pencil still in hand. His friends joked about it, said,  _man, you need to get some sleep_ , and SickSteve didn't hesitate to say  _he never does_.

The walls on ML's side of the room were completely blank. No posters, no photos, not even artwork. His desk was empty of clutter, his side of the room empty of trash, his shelves only school books. If it were just cleanliness, SickSteve wouldn't be so bothered.

It wasn't cleanliness.

It was someone who never offered an opinion, who never  _had_ an opinion because he never  _thought._ All he ever did was sit quietly for hours. SickSteve can sit quietly, too, but his mind is always raging, desperate to puzzle things out, to amuse itself.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked ML (and that's the only spark of brilliance SickSteve's ever caught from him, calling SickSteve SL and asking to be called by his initials as well; it's a kindness, too, an acknowledgement, even a thought, that Stephen might not be his real or only first name. Ah, but kindness isn't what ML's lacking) not two weeks before he left, after SickSteve came back from class and found him staring at the wall.

ML smiled cheerily, unconcerned at being caught in such a position. "My brother is coming for a visit."

"Is he?" SickSteve asked, feeling ice in his veins. ML had two brothers, both Aglionby students, one former, one current. SickSteve had no affection for either, for very different reasons.

"Yep. He said he was going to take me to Staunton to do some shopping. We might visit Mom, too."

SickSteve nodded. The visit would be brief, then. ML's brother had not been pleased to learn SickSteve would be rooming with him, even accused him of some very nasty things when he found out. He was into some shady shit, that guy, and he seemed to think SickSteve might use their situation as an opportunity to spy on ML. You heard that right,  _spy_.

"That'll be fun," SickSteve said. He clapped ML on the shoulder, resisting the urge to ruffle his unruly curls. "Send me a text when he gets here, okay? I wouldn't want to get in the way of your brotherly bonding time."

ML beamed.

Now he's gone, having taken his sunny disposition with him. The room feels quiet without another person in it, large and forbidding.

The strangest part of all is that the older brother took ML but left their other brother. SickSteve doesn't see much of that one, not that he wants to, but it's a strange thing, isn't it, to take one and leave the other. He has heard that the two oldest don't get along. Maybe that's why.

Or maybe there's something going on that SickSteve doesn't know about.

Something to do with ML's strangeness, the oldest brother's shadiness, the middle brother's antisocial tendencies.

Cheng dislikes the middle one. He's careful to keep his opinions of the eldest close to home, which is suspicious in and of itself, and he calls the youngest simple but kind.

The Lynch brothers, SickSteve suspects, are key to the puzzle that is Henry Cheng.

* * *

 

It's two a.m. SickSteve's watching  _Gasland_. He's already read the Economides's review debunking it and, quite honestly, Economides's tone only made him more curious to watch the documentary.

The Wi-Fi in the dorms is better but Mrs. Woo's has Donghyun. Who is not actually here right now. He's in Fairfax, visiting friends. SickSteve's become a little too used to haunting Litchfield. No joke, he's been here five times this week and it's only Wednesday.

The back door creaks open. For a second, SickSteve thinks it's Ryang and Koh. They left around seven and have yet to return.

The door closes quietly, excruciatingly slowly. There's no giggling, no  _shh, Koh, they'll hear us_. The furtiveness is there but the reason is altogether different.

Cheng creeps down the back hallway. His steps are slow and careful.

"Bit late, isn't it?" SickSteve asks.

Cheng startles. He turns to look at SickSteve with wide eyes. Despisal fills SickSteve. It only grows when Cheng's eyes fall to half-mast.

"I didn't realize I had a curfew."

"Everyone else does."

"There are perks to living off campus." Cheng glances in the direction of his room. "I'm going upstairs now."

SickSteve lets him go. He presses play but he can't get back into his documentary, so he pauses it again. He tries to tamp down on the anger welling up inside him.

When Henry Cheng leaves and returns, cigarette smoke or expensive cologne clinging to his skin, the hard lines of secrets carved across his face, does he know what he's doing, what he's done? Or does he climb into bed and think this is how life has to be?

 _Do you know what it's like_ , SickSteve thinks, on the verge of fury and struggling to keep it in,  _pretending not to know?_

Cheng comes and he goes, arrogant in his indifference to how sloppy he's become. It's increasingly obvious to everyone, Cheng2 especially, that he doesn't care. They aren't the ones he wants. Their usefulness is fading.

Cheng's always had another life. He thinks he's so clever. Koh and Rutherford barely notice or care but they're much the same, living two or three lives at once.

SickSteve has never been good at that.

He struggles to be the son his parents want, godly, devout, pure, and hardworking. The last one's not so hard. The first three- yeah, he needs to work on them.

Does he, though? What he's keeping hidden isn't hurting anyone but himself.

Then again, no one's watching SickSteve and everyone's watching Cheng.

SickSteve watches him do his little dance, day in and day out. He sees the pain and longing Cheng2 can't keep hidden. He listens to ML's careless words and Koh's recounting of his conversations with Skovron.

To say that SickSteve hates Cheng is to misunderstand. SickSteve does not hate the person Henry Cheng, not as he is now, not as he was before. He hates the person Henry Cheng is becoming, what he’s doing to become that person. He hates seeing Cheng sneak around, just as he hated having to hear ML wonder what his brothers were up to, just as he hates having to sit in class with Gansey and Parrish and know that they know something he does not.

He hates, most of all, watching, day in and day out, as Cheng2 eats his heart out, blood streaming down his hands and pooling on the floor.

Because if Cheng2 has no chance with Cheng, what chance does Stephen Lee have with Donghyun?

It’s a stupid crush. It’s consuming him, desire and need, a soul-sickening ache every time Donghyun’s near. Donghyun's so good and kind, so patient, and SickSteve’s just anger and passion and yearning, all of it churning inside him so strongly he can barely contain it. He can’t stand to be around Cheng these days, can’t stand to be away from Donghyun.

He just wants it to end.

He wants things to go back to normal. He wants to be able to study in the same room with the others without emotion spilling out of every pore but he’s greeted by hungry-eyed, hollow-cheeked boys. He goes back to his dorm and ML's absence is a visible reminder of all things strange, wrong, and wonderful about Henrietta, all the reasons Cheng wants to trade places with Lynch and Parrish. He goes to Litchfield where Donghyun is waiting with a kind smile and SickSteve would kill for that smile to be for him, just for him. There’s a voice in the back of his head saying it is, it has to be, Donghyun never looks at anyone else like that.

But it’s only a thought and thoughts don’t mean much outside their thinker’s head.

* * *

 

SickSteve's running again. Real running, with the shorts and the shoes, and the Under Armour. Lately, it's a common event.

A few months back, SickSteve would go running in the morning and maybe again in the evening. For exercise, no more. After ML left and Cheng's sneaking around became too blatant to ignore, SickSteve went up to three times a day, no one to stop him. When he can't think anymore and his head is full of Cheng and Cheng2, and Donghyun, he changes into shorts, puts on his trainers, and he runs.

He runs until his chest burns and he's gasping for breath, until all he can concentrate on is the physical. Pacing isn't important when what you're running from is your own thoughts.

Tonight, he ends up out in the middle of nowhere, more the middle of nowhere than Henrietta, a place whose name he doesn’t know but is surely a nightmare to sight-read, and he sits down with his back against a tree trunk and he breathes.

Out here, he isn't afraid to let his thoughts wander. He's not going to slip. Nothing's going to get back to his parents.

Out here, he's safe.

His mind drifts to Donghyun, as it often does.

Donghyun looks the way home should feel: gentle planes, welcoming eyes, knowing smiles. He is kind and gorgeous, and so, so smart. SickSteve's favorite part of him, though, the part that catches his attention every time, is his thighs.

Donghyun has these soft, inviting thighs that SickSteve just wants to press his face against. If you think that's deviant, Donghyun doesn't even  _like_ his thighs. He pokes at them, sighing and telling whoever's listening (SickSteve's always listening) that he's going to start eating less and exercising more. Koh tries to make him feel better by saying his thighs are big, too, but muscle doesn't jiggle the same way and, wow, does SickSteve like it when Donghyun jiggles.

SickSteve shoves his hand down his shorts. He wraps his hand around himself, already achingly hard, and smears the precome leaking from the tip along his shaft, makeshift lubricant. He begins to stroke.

Donghyun's not even that big, just a few extra pounds, but that little bit of curviness is enough to get SickSteve  _fired_. Yes, he's fully aware how depraved that sounds, how depraved that  _is_. SickSteve's spent a lot of time debating whether this is his brain coping with the fact that there aren't any girls around for him to fixate on.

It's not, he's sure of it. Henrietta's teeming with girls and, while some of them have really nice thighs, he doesn't spend ten hours a day around them and want to spend more.

It's definitely just a Donghyun thing.

SickSteve shudders as he comes all over his hand. He sits there for a moment, disgusted with himself. He wipes his hand on the grass. Then he gets up and starts running.

Once this year is done, he’ll be out of here. Henry Cheng won’t matter and neither will the Lynch brothers. The friendships he’s made will falter and die out. He’ll make new ones, forge a new life for himself.

He won’t see Donghyun again.

It’s painful, that thought, but SickSteve knows it’s true. Donghyun's already decided on UBC. They’ll be thousands of miles apart. They didn’t know each other in Vancouver; there’s no reason to think they’ll know each other in the future.

What SickSteve wouldn’t give to know Donghyun in the future.

* * *

 

Donghyun and Koh are eating a lunch of cold, spicy _japchae_ when SickSteve stops by. Mrs. Woo's off watching her soaps. He'll ask if she has any chores for him later (she will, of course, and he'll do them so he feels less like a failure and more like a dutiful son and not at all like someone desperate for an excuse to hang around the house).

Donghyun smiles, all large eyes and softly rounded cheeks. SickSteve hovers behind Koh's chair. He keeps the awkwardness and uncertainty he feels carefully concealed.

"Bored," Koh complains, putting his chin down on the table.

"Where's Ryang?"

"Calling his dad," Koh says. He sighs dramatically. "Borrred," he repeats. He perks up, turning in his seat to address SickSteve. "You want to play a game?"

"Hell no," SickSteve replies. Koh's idea of games are twenty minutes of Monopoly or Life before he gets frustrated and wants to go outside. He's not the second most tanned of them for nothing (SickSteve's got him beat but only because Mrs. Woo's chores this time of year are typically outside and no one's telling SickSteve to wear shin guards or put his shirt back on). "Did you bring a ball? I'll shoot some goals with you."

Koh pouts. "Forgot it."

"Welp."

Donghyun's looking at him. SickSteve can't take it anymore.

"Is Cheng2 upstairs?" SickSteve asks. It takes everything in him to look Donghyun in the eyes.

"Yes," Donghyun says. "He's studying for a test."

"Physics?"

"I believe so."

"Is Cheng with him?"

Koh laughs. Yeah, stupid question. Cheng's probably with Gansey or one of his other new friends.

"I'll go see if he needs help," SickSteve says unnecessarily. He slaps the back of Koh's chair. "Alright, see you guys in a bit."

He is such an idiot.

* * *

 

SickSteve splashes water on his face. He turns the tap and wipes his face with a paper towel. He looks at himself in Mrs. Woo's bathroom mirror.

SickSteve has always thought he was weird-looking. Not ugly, just odd. His face is sculpted, with good bone structure, and prominent cheeks like apples. They stick out when he smiles, giving him a somewhat insincere, roguish look when combined with his puffy eyes. That's the nice way of putting it. The rude way is saying SickSteve is 185 cm and getting taller. He's lean and mean with an emphasis on mean, a boy with the face of a devil and the temperament of one, too.

Would Donghyun want this face? Would it appeal to him? SickSteve asks himself these questions daily.

He shouldn't be asking himself these questions at all.

He needs to get away from this place. Henrietta is no good for him. He's become estranged from Christ, fallen from grace straight into sin. In him dwells a wellspring of passion- anger, lust, pride- that he unleashes far too often. He needs to cast out these demons, scrub his soul clean. Repent.

Be the son his parents want him to be.


	18. Chapter 18

"Koh," Skov says, nodding at him. He kneels down to tie his cleat.

Jinho nods back. He's having a bitch of a time getting his shin guards on today, mostly because he doesn't want to get his shin guards on today. Jinho loves soccer but he had too much to drink last night and the sun is really bright, and he'd much rather sit on the grass pretending shin guards are too much for him. "Skov."

"Hey, you're friends with Cheng, right? You maybe wanna tell him to stay in his lane?"

Jinho snorts. When did Cheng ever listen to him? Guy thinks he's an idiot.

Skov looks up from tying his shoe.

"I'm serious, Koh. Your man's sticking his nose where it doesn't belong."

Jinho has never forgotten that Skov was once friends with a guy who nearly killed Cheng2. He doesn't think Skov would hurt  _him_ \- Jinho's never given him a reason to- but that doesn't mean Skov wouldn't hurt  _somebody_.

"He won't listen to anything I have to say. That's not how it works."

"Shame," Skov says. "It'd be easier for y'all if it did."

"He's not into anything bad, is he?"

"Koh, you were at the Fourth. You were in the crowd. Do you know who had front row seats?"

"Uh-"

"Gansey and Lynch. Go back a coupla months, that would've never happened. And now people're dead."

"You think Gansey had something to do with it?" Jinho feels conspiratorial. Gansey's _weird_. He's supposed to be this big shot Republican's son, all straight-laced and broad smiles, and yet all he ever wants to talk about is Welsh history. He quit the crew team to spend more time searching for some dead Welsh dude. Not only that, his only real friends, his  _followers_ , are a bald kid and a hick. It figures he'd be an axe murderer. Or, uh, a regular murderer. Jinho doesn't have a clear remembrance of July 4th. Like, okay, dragons in the sky, yes, but Jinho had also taken a tab of acid and Ryang had been standing really close and he'd smelled really nice and- off topic.

Jinho clears his throat.

"Dick III's got his hand in a lot of pies but he ain't who I'm worried about," Skov says. He frowns. "Look, I don't give a damn about Cheng personally. But I'd like to end this year with the same amount of classmates as I started, ya feel?"

Jinho feels. He's not going to say anything to anyone, though. No one ever listens to him. It's always,  _don't hurt yourself, thinking, Koh_ , or  _it's a good thing you have that face, Koh_. No one takes him seriously, not even Ryang sometimes.

"Skovron, Koh, what the hell are you two doing over there? Get your asses on the field!"

Skov rolls his eyes. Jinho snickers.

"Coming, coach!"

* * *

 

Jinho takes another swig of his 40, spilling sour-smelling liquid all down his front, and thinks fuck it. His legs aren't working too well. He stumbles a little but gets himself upright before he's too perpendicular.

Today has been a bad day. First, he bombed a history quiz (okay not really, he just got a C and felt horrible about it). Then Cheng blew off their afterschool plans to be with, who else, Gansey and SickSteve was pissy about that and he and Cheng2 ruined everyone's mood because why the fuck would they be able to have a good time without Cheng. Just impossible. And then, and then, Ryang got mad about something Jinho did 'cept Jinho doesn't know what it was. Jinho called him a doo doo head and Ryang said he needed to work on his vocabulary, what was he, five? And that was just super hurtful and mean. Jinho's still learning English, he can't know every word. So he called Ryang _byungshin_ and Ryang didn't know what that meant and he thought Jinho was trying to get back at him by using Korean when he knows Ryang's Korean isn't good and it was just a big fuckcluster is what it was.

Jinho tips his forty back, only to find it empty. He sucks on the wet part of his shirt. Stupid Ryang.

* * *

 

Jinho sniffles and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. It's got dirt on it. He thinks he might have skinned it, ow.

He hits call again, hoping someone will pick up. Even if he could walk, he can't go back to the dorms like this.

"Koh?"

Jinho looks up. His head swims and he groans, clutching it.

"Hey," the person says softly, crouching down. Jinho thinks he knows him but he doesn't have his contacts in and everything's blurry. "You alright, man?"

Jinho shakes his head fiercely. No, no, he's not alright. If he was, he wouldn't be sitting on the cold concrete with a busted knee and a swelling ankle.

"I fell," he says simply because simple words are all he can master now. No, not master. Masticate. That's not it. Mananage. Yes, mananage.

The person laughs. Jinho pouts. He doesn't like it when people laugh at him.

"Is he one of the annoying ones?" another voice asks. It's deep and rich with an edge that says English is not its mother tongue. Jinho instantly likes it.

"Nah," the first voice says. "Koh's cool. He's Ryang's friend, remember?"

Jinho nods, happy for the compliment. Yes, he is very cool.

The laughter is nicer this time.

"Alright, Cool Beans, you wanna get in the car with us? The Henrietta drunktank is not where you want to be come sunrise, take it from me."

Without a second's consideration, Jinho gets in the stranger's car.

* * *

 

They drive for what seems like forever. Jinho's head feels heavy. He leans it against the cool glass of the window and winces when it bumps against it.

The driver's talking to the guy in the passenger seat. When alcohol goes in Jinho's brain, English tends to spill out, which means he can't understand what they're saying. It doesn't matter. They're not talking to him.

"You good back there?" one of them asks. Are they speaking English? The words sound English-y.

"Nngh," Jinho says.

"Don't puke in my car," the other warns.

Jinho will try not to.

* * *

 

Four a.m. is not a time Ryang typically answers his phone but today Koh is _blowing it up._

Five missed calls already and he’s still going at it. Ryang checks his phone just in case it’s anyone else and hisses before letting it go to voicemail. If Koh wants to talk, they can talk face-to-face. Ryang’s had enough of Koh’s bullshit for today.

Koh calls again. Ryang thinks about turning his phone off.

Another call. Ryang picks his phone up to check. It’s an unknown number, so he places his phone back on his night table.

Ping! goes his SMS notification.

Ryang groans.

_wth the hell ryagn pick up your phone_

Ryang squints. It’s the same unknown number from before. Fucking up his name besides, it’s clearly someone who knows him.

It’s also four a.m.

Ryang groans and throws his head back on the pillow. He does not answer the text.

Ping!

Ping!

Ping!

P-ping! P-ping! P-ping!

_answer_

_ur_

_goddamn_

_phone_

_u piece of motherfucking_

_shit_

_there is a drunk korean bleeding all over my car i am not getting arrested fr this shit_

That has Ryang sitting up, grabbing for his phone, heart pounding. Unknown number picks up on the first ring.

“Look who finally decided to answer!” Blake Skovron says with false cheer. There's a dark huff in the background. “You’ve got ten seconds to get your ass down here and open this door before your boyfriend wakes up the whole neighborhood.”

There’s warbling in the background. It sounds horribly like Koh.

“I’ll be down there in a second,” Ryang says, breathless and afraid. He throws on a jacket and races down the stairs, fearing the worst. Skov’s never good news and Swan, too? It’s been months since the incident with Cheng2, months since the Fourth, and yet Ryang is terrified.

“What did you do to him?” he demands, throwing the front door open.

Skov’s leaning against the RX-7 parked in front of Litchfield House. He’s weighing his phone in his hand, looking bored. Swan’s next to the open passenger side door and there-

Ryang grabs the roof of the car and leans in. Koh looks up at him. His eyes are red and watery. He hiccups, the sad, pathetic sound of someone finishing a good cry.

“I’int do shit,” Skov says. “This dipshit fell all by himself.” He bangs on the roof. “Hey, Koh, you wanna tell Ryang where we found you?” Skov looks at Ryang. “Crying on the side of the goddamned street because you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

“Are you alright?” Ryang asks Koh softly. He can smell beer on Koh’s breath. There are fresh bandages on Koh’s knee, dirt and grass stains beneath it.

“He needs ice,” Swan says. “His ankle may be twisted.”

“Why didn’t you take him to the school nurse?” Ryang asks.

Koh hiccups.

Skov rolls his eyes. “There’s this thing, what’s it called- underage drinking. Totally illegal in the state of Virginia, will definitely get you an infraction if the RAs catch you. Dude, we patched him up. Swan has a bomb-ass first aid kit.”

“He needs ice,” Swan repeats, “and elevation.”

“You wanna maybe take your boy so we can get on our way?” Skov asks.

Ryang’s helping Koh out of the car when the lights come on.

“Shit,” Ryang says.

“Busted,” Skov says.

Mrs. Woo stands on the front porch in all her bathrobe and slippers glory, flanked by Cheng, Rutherford, and Cheng2. Ryang groans. Koh giggles.

“He needs ice,” Ryang calls out.

Cheng2 and Rutherford help Koh inside. Mrs. Woo glares at him but she’ll yell at him inside, not out here where the neighbors can watch and titter. She crosses her arms and scowls at the three boys on her lawn.

Ryang suddenly empathizes with Swan and Skov.

Cheng’s looking around, probably expecting to see Jiang. His gaze meets Skov’s and Skov grins, slow and cruel.

“Time’s ticking, Cheng,” he calls, hands around his mouth. “June 8th rolls around, you better watch out.” He and Swan climb into the car. With identical slams of car doors, they're off.

“What was that about?” Ryang asks Cheng.

“Nothing. Is Koh okay?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. He fell.”

"You sure about that?"

Ryang studies Cheng's face. Not five minutes ago, Ryang assumed Skov and Swan had done something, too. He was scared, Koh was hurt, it was the middle of the night. But now he's remembering that Koh and Skov are acquaintances. They play soccer and rugby together. Swan comes to every game. They're friendly, if not friends. Ryang might not approve but Koh's friends with plenty of people.

And Koh called him first.

And they'd just had a fight.

It was stupid, pointless, the sort of bickering they did all the time. It wasn't important and Koh went and got drunk alone because they still haven't told anybody and he had no one to turn to. He got hurt, probably turned his ankle walking down the street because he was drunk at four in the morning without anyone to make sure he didn't hurt himself because Ryang was being a dick.

"Ryang?"

"It's fine," Ryang assures him, watching Rutherford wrap ice around Koh's ankle. "Koh was just being stupid. They patched him up. That's all they did."

Cheng, Ryang can tell, doesn't believe him.

And that is a very scary thought.


	19. Chapter 19

"You missed Koh's game last night," Cheng2 says. His voice is unusually flat. His hand twitches against his slim, trousers-clad thigh. "He helped score the winning goal."

"Tell him I apologize," Henry says. If Cheng2 says it, maybe it will sound sincere. Henry's certainly not sorry for spending last night at Nino's, an absolutely terrible pizza parlor with sticky tabletops and dirty floors. Blue Sargent has found employment in this hellhole and so Gansey's gang has chosen to patron said establishment. The night had been wonderful. "I was busy."

Cheng2's hand stills. An emotion flickers across his face, as though he might actually ask _with what?_ "Okay," he says, his fingers starting up a rhythm. "I'll tell him."

They go to class and don't speak of it again.


	20. Chapter 20

"You think they's do it?" Koh asks.

"Who?" Rutherford replies. There are a lot of people who could be "doing it". Lord, gay boys up to your eyeballs at this school.

"Cheng and Skovron." He pronounces Skovron as Skof-eu-rron. Spring break's been over for two days and he can still barely string a full English sentence together.

"The fuck is wrong with you, Koh?" Rutherford says, frowning at him.

Koh smiles wickedly. "Lately they's hang out a lot."

"No, they don't." Even as he says it, Rutherford realizes Koh is right. Cheng and Skov have been hanging out a lot lately, though "hanging out" isn't the way Rutherford would phrase it.

"Skov's taken," Cheng2 snaps, the first time he's spoken this whole conversation. "Cheng wouldn't want him anyway."

The entire group sobers. Merriment fades as they all remember what's a joke for some isn't for all.

And it is true, Skovron's taken. Rutherford wishes he didn't know this but he does. Skovron's ugly ass is getting it on with Swan, who is fucking beautiful, not just handsome, downright _beautiful_ , and there is much speculation in certain circles about what exactly Swan gets out of that relationship. By "certain circles", Rutherford means himself. He's very interested in the answer to that particular question.

He doesn't want Swan for himself. Rutherford is a lady's man all the way.

His interest in Swan is a little more personal than that.

* * *

 

It was sophomore year.

"Do you need something, Rutherford?" Skov asked. He looked at Rutherford with the sort of indolence only someone smoking cigarettes behind the administration building could.

"He followed me," Swan said quietly. Everything was quiet about him, this black Adonis who made Rutherford ashamed every time he was near. Swan was so aggressively black and most couldn't even tell Rutherford was.

He was only a quarter but it was as much his heritage as anything else. And yet he looked in the mirror every morning trying to see the person everyone else did.

Hedidn't have the courage to tell Swan, to sidle up to him and say, _you and me, we have something in common._ Swan didn't care.

Rutherford had been hoping this project would give him a chance to learn about his classmate but Swan didn't seem interested in doing any classwork. Hence Rutherford following him after class. The project was due next week and Rutherford was not going to fail this assignment just because Swan didn't care.

"I need to, uh, speak to you," Rutherford said.

Swan flicked cigarette ash in his general direction.

Swandidn't go with Rutherfordthat day but they did get the project done before the due date. 70:30 work ratio but done.

* * *

 

Two years later, Rutherford's over it. Swan's barely hanging on by a thread, a laundry list of behavioral problems and rule infractions on his record. Rutherford once admired his brazen black virility; now he abhors it. Swan makes their race look bad. His story- single mother, absent father, juvenile delinquent- is a tired cliché. He's bringing them all down and he doesn't care.

Of course, Rutherford's heard the term respectability politics. In theory, he agrees no one should have to adhere to the standards of the oppressor. In practice, he sees a dark-skinned black kid about to be a statistic.

"What you think they talk about?" Koh asks. Without the humor, Cheng's association with Skov takes on a sinister light. Skov's Jiang's friend and, while Rutherford has few problems with Jiang, both were associates of Kavinsky's.

Rutherford works his teeth. It's not his business what Cheng does. If Cheng's playing a long game, Rutherford needn't know what it is.

"Guys?" Koh asks. "Steve?"

SickSteve's nostrils flare but he doesn't say anything.

Lee-Squared is quick to get on his tiptoes and murmur something in SickSteve's ear.

SickSteve laughs, his face splitting into a wide grin. Rutherford can't remember the last time he saw him so carefree. Lately, SickSteve is always angry, his words biting, his face closed off, but now he is grinning at Lee-Squared with an ease Rutherford hasn't seen in weeks.

It won't last. That kind of anger doesn't simply go away. Rutherford just hopes to avoid the inevitable implosion.

* * *

  

It may not be Rutherford's business but he still worries about Cheng. He isn't saying Cheng's involved but there's a string of weird coincidences involving his new friends. Last spring, Gansey found a body. Last summer, he was at Joseph Kavinsky's Fourth of July party. This fall, a local man was shot and Gansey claims to have known him, even to feel responsible. Also, this fall, he stumbled upon a major archaeological find, the tomb of a fourteenth century Welsh king.

And now Henry's talking to Blake Skovron, whose most noticeable feature is his one-time friendship with Joseph Kavinsky.

Rutherford shouldn't care. He doesn't have time to. Let Cheng do whatever it is he's doing. It could be nothing.

It could be everything.

Because here's the thing- that boy's body Gansey found? Rutherford could have sworn he knew him.

* * *

 

Rutherford adjusts his mask. He tests the stability of his tripod and makes sure his video camera is on.

Rutherford doesn't have a nice, neat ghost story to tell. No nails on chalkboards, chains rattling in the attic, ominous sounds from the basement. For two and a half years, he was haunted and then, one day, he wasn't. It's anticlimactic and not particularly interesting, so he's never told this story before.

It's not a conspiracy theory. It's no Project Sunshine, no Freemasons, no secret society. Henrietta is real. No one ever believes Rutherford but Henrietta has power.

The whole South does. Or did you think hoodoo was without a source? Humans have sought out natural power sources for millennia, from the vapors of Delphi to the peyote of the Southwest.

Have you heard of the ghosts of the Blue Ridge Mountains? Have you heard about black dogs, phantom travelers, Mothmen? Those stories have to come from somewhere.

SickSteve says Rutherford's crazy but Rutherford can see it in his eyes: SickSteve believes. This world is too strange for the implausible not to exist.

But that's not why Rutherford's posting this tonight. No, he's here to share a story, to get people thinking about the impossible already in their midst.

He hits Record.

"You're not going to believe this story," he begins. "It's not fantastic. It's not pushing the boundaries of the imagination. It might even be the most boring ghost story you've ever heard." Rutherford pauses for dramatic effect. It's all about timing with these stories, building the intrigue, the suspense. "It's still a ghost story. And it's still true."

Rutherford takes a breath.

"It started with the skate park..."

* * *

 

The boy used to come every day Rutherford was there. He was easy to overlook, this pale kid sitting with arms folded around his knees, watching the vert ramp with a wistful expression. Clearly Aglionby, he always came straight from school, still wearing his uniform. All he ever did was watch.

The first few times, Rutherford ignored him. But then it made him itchy, the feeling of someone watching him, of someone being there. The kid's favoritesseemed to be the vert with its steep sides and the spine ramp. Hewould spend hours just watching, silent as anything.

"You want to join in?" Rutherford would ask when the watching became too much. "You could borrow my board."

The boy in the Aglionby sweaterwould shake his head. He'd pull his knees closer to his chest. "I just want to watch." He had a weak, thready voice.

"Whatever, man," Rutherfordwould say. "Your loss."

* * *

 

"What's your name?" Rutherford asked more than once, more than twice. Hours had gone by and the kid hadn't moved from his spot.

The boy looked startled, the same as he did every time Rutherford acknowledged him. His elfin mouth fell open in surprise. Rutherford didn't typically elicit that reaction from people.

"Noah," he said.

* * *

 

"It used to be," Rutherford says to the camera, holding up the first of many photos, "Richard Campbell Gansey III had three constant companions."

The first and third were and still are Ronan Lynch and Adam Parrish. If you had asked Rutherford, he would have said the second was a slouchy, unimpressive, vaguely mousey boy named Noah.

Obviously, that's not true. Obviously.

But Rutherford remembers that name because he had thought it strange and he remembers a companion he saw for three long years who is no longer there.

The most damning, no, the  _strangest_ part is that, in the last four years, Aglionby has no record of this person. Rutherford had checked, sitting idle one day, turning a pen over and over in his hand as he tried to figure out what had been bothering him for days. The week had seen a silly little Aglionby tradition called Raven Day. Rutherford had been struck first by the pale, elfish woman who had been asked to speak and then by her words.

Noah Czerny's sister looked an awful lot like Gansey's missing companion. An awful lot.

Rutherford had meant to say something but Koh and SickSteve were arguing in fast Korean, Lee-Squared was talking to Cheng2 quietly, and Ryang had fucked off somewhere, as had Cheng. Then the festivities had started and there was no time to find the woman, Adele Czerny, and say, _hey, I think you're brother's been haunting the school._

Because Rutherford believes in ghosts. His mother's from Singapore and his father's from Georgia and right now he's living in a hotbed of paranormal activity. He doesn't have time to consider whether his belief is ignorant when this past spring a boy seven years dead sat down next to him and complimented him on his skate shoes.

"Gansey _had_ a companion. That boy was not among the graduates or the dropouts last fall. Why?" Rutherford takes a breath. "Because he's dead."

* * *

 

The last photo is blurry, distorted as these photos tend to be. Ectoplasm and spirit energy don't adapt well to printing.Still, it's obvious what the focus of the photo is. Out of the four boys, one is clearly less than the others. He takes up less space, calls less attention to the eyes, until you look close enough. A grinning skull, vertebrae, a rib cage- they're all captured faintly underneath the living facade.

"This photo was taken last May," Rutherford tells his audience. " _After_ the body of an Aglionby student was found. A body, may I remind you, that lay untouched for seven years."

"So," Rutherford says. He tilts the camera up towards his face, "Richard Campbell Gansey III, are you ready to tell the world the truth about Noah Czerny?"

* * *

 

"Uh," Tad Carruthers says. Adam looks at him from the corner of his eye. What does Carruthers want from him now? "Have you seen the video?"

"What video?"

Carruthers is only too happy to share. "Someone called Gansey out. It's really weird. Have you ever heard the name Noah Czerny?"

Adam grabs at Carruthers' phone.

He's right. It is weird. The guy in the video is wearing a Guy Fawkes mask and his voice is distorted. He's talking about a skate park.

"Oh, you can skip all that," Carruthers says hastily. "The guy's nuts. He thinks he saw a ghost while out skateboarding."

"And Noah?"

Carruthers scratches the side of his neck. "That's the really weird part. You know those bones Gansey found out by that church last spring? They belonged to this kid, see, Noah Czerny. And now my brother- Carson, not Dan- he says he knew Noah. Like, total adrenaline junkie, drove this tricked out Mustang, friends with, uh. Anyways, he says Noah used to visit that skate park all the time." Something almost like consideration flickers across Carruthers' face. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

"No," Adam says simply. He can feel the weight of his tarot deck in his pocket. What does the video have to say about Gansey? The vlogger's still talking about Noah. He holds up a picture. It must have been at a school function. There's Gansey, Ronan, himself...and what is unmistakably Noah. But you would only know that if you knew every student at Aglionby. Otherwise, it could be anyone with brown hair and terrible posture.

"Me, neither. But this guy's a total conspiracy nut. He thinks Gansey's holding out on us, like he's got some big secret."

Adam glares at him.

"I didn't say that. The guy in the video did. Look, I don't know what this guy's on about. I've never seen that kid before in my life. But there's a lot of weirdos running around these days and this guy, he thinks Gansey owes him something. Be careful, yeah?"

"Thanks, Tad," Adam says. Tad beams but Adam pays him no mind. The gears in his head are already turning. This isn't a simple conspiracy theory getting blown out of proportion. This is someone latching onto the truth and demanding action.

Gansey could be in real trouble.

* * *

 

"What are you playing at?" Cheng2 asks.

Rutherford looks up guiltily- someone saw his video and spread it around the school and now people are asking questions Rutherford didn't actually expect them to ask- but it's SickSteve who smiles blandly, tilts his head, and says, "Whatever do you mean?"

"I know it was you," Cheng2 says and even if he hadn't, Lee-Squared biting back a smile would have told him it was. Whatever "it" is.

"I may have used the administrative email to send the entire student populace a certain video," SickSteve says. "What of it?"

"It sounds like a threat."

"No," SickSteve says, "it _sounds_ like Ruthy's off his rocker."

Three pairs of eyes turn to look at Rutherford. It is very conspicuous that Ryang, Koh, and Cheng are not in this room.

"What _were_ you thinking?" Lee-Squared asks. His round face and large, liquid eyes turn the otherwise harsh words into a gentle question. He picks at his muffin, waiting for Rutherford's explanation.

Rutherford has none.

"It was a joke?"

"A little too Ancient Aliens for that," SickSteve says. "Hell of a way to show your regard for Gansey, though, I'll give you that."

"Was it about Gansey?" Cheng2 looks contemplative. "It sounded like a threat there, at the end."

"I'm not crazy," Rutherford says. "I know what I saw."

"Oh," SickSteve says, "I have no doubt about that."

Before he has a chance to elaborate, Mrs. Woo walks by. She sees them lying around the living room, doing nothing productive, and sends them off to various tasks.

In time, the school forgets about Rutherford's video. It gets written off as a bad prank, an attempt to sully Gansey's mother's name before the election. Similar things have happened before.

Rutherford doesn't forget. In fact, he takes Gansey's silence as an admission of guilt. He goes back through the newspapers, reads every article about Gansey finding the body and the investigation thereafter.

Then, one day, there's a comment on his video he would never have expected.

 _Hello_ , it reads. _My name is Adele Czerny. I'd like to talk to you if I could._


	21. Chapter 21

When Rutherford was eleven years old, he saw a thing that could not be explained. A lake monster, a plesiosaur, a creature that should have died off millions of years ago swimming in a rural Georgian lake. Dozens of feet long, the creature had no back legs, only two front flippers and a tail that went on forever. It was the color of the water, here and there, gone in a flash.

No one believed Rutherford. And why should they? When a ten-year-old spouts nonsense, no one listens. None of them had ever heard of Alty.

Years later, Rutherford would come across the legend of Altamaha-ha, a Loch Ness-style cryptid. In that legend, he found his answer. There were things in this world beyond explanation, creatures that defied science. Rutherford, whose ethnic makeup people could never seem to believe, found himself fascinated.

Since then, Rutherford's spent unimaginable amounts of money and time searching out the implausible, trying to understand how the world _really_ works. That's how his father, the federal judge, puts it. Unimaginable. Darius Rutherford finds his son's interests flamboyant and without purpose. He would rather Rutherford turn his talents to reading the classics and memorizing vocabulary lists. As a mixed race American, Darius's son would have to work harder than most to get where he wanted.

Where was that again? Wherever the family wanted, undoubtedly. As the only child of two legal professionals who weren't even the most accomplished members of their respective family trees, Rutherford's personal interests were of no consequence.

He was given his choice of high school. One such as he could not be expected to attend public school and no nearby private schools were considered acceptable.

Rutherford's mother presented him with a list. It was long and included such illustrious names as Asheville, Choate, Groton, and Hotchkiss. It was the most control Rutherford had had in his entire life. His future rested on the choice he would make.

He weighed his options. Rutherford was not without caution. He took weeks to choose, knowing that he was being graded not simply on his choice but his reasoning, too.

When questioned, Rutherford spoke of the proximity to Washington, the number of politicians' sons, its integration in the local community.

Rutherford's parents are lawyers. Half-truths come naturally.

The Mothman, the Flatwoods Monster, the Appalachian black panther, those were what brought Rutherford to Aglionby. Ghosts were never on his radar. And yet, the most implausible thing Rutherford's found in all his time here is a seven years dead ghost named Noah.

* * *

 

"I thought I was crazy," the thin wisp of a woman says. "I saw him everywhere. When I went to Henrietta, I'd see him. Never close by but in the distance with those boys," Adele Czerny tells Rutherford. "The family home is in the next town over. I thought I was seeing things but you saw him, too."

"I thought he was a student," Rutherford says.

"Do you have those pictures? The ones from the video?"

He shows them to her. She pours over them. Rutherford grows alarmed when her eyes turn watery and start to tear up.

Adele sniffs and wipes her eyes. She tells him she is a junior at Sweet Briar.

"If," she says, "you'd come with me there, I'd like to show you something."

On a cool Saturday afternoon in the middle of March, Rutherford travels out to Lynchburg to meet M.

* * *

 

Before he can see M, Rutherford has to go through Japleen.

"He's the one?" Japleen asks. They're sitting in a lavish apartment. It reminds Rutherford of the home his father bought for his grandmother. Floral wallpaper, stiff couches, thick rugs, and hardwood floors. Adele might have contacted Rutherford but it's clearly Japleen who runs this operation. She turns to look at Rutherford. "You go to school in Henrietta?"

He made the video, didn't he? "Yes?"

She looks him up and down. Rutherford feels very small. Japleen is beautiful with thick hair, brown skin, and a voice that hints at a Caribbean upbringing. For all he is impressed by her, Japleen is not impressed by him.

"Do you think he's telling the truth?" she asks Adele. Japleen's eyes stay fixed on Rutherford. "Is there anything a dedicated truther couldn't have made up?"

"No," Adele says. "But I believe him. That boy he was talking about hangs out with the girl who was at my brother's funeral."

Rutherford wracks his brain. _The girl who was at my brother's funeral._ "You mean Blue Sargent?"

Adele snaps her fingers and points one at Rutherford. "That's the one. She said her mother was a psychic."

Rutherford doesn't know about that. He's never paid much attention to Gansey's friends.

Japleen considers this.

"What," she asks Rutherford, "do you know about Marie Antoinette?"

Adele rolls her eyes. "I'm going to go get M."

* * *

 

Fatimah and Avery are no more impressed by Rutherford than Japleen was. Rutherford can feel them watching him as he waits for Adele to return with M.

M. Or is it Em? The way Adele says the name makes it seem important, grand even.

"Did you know Barrington Whelk?" Fatimah asks, black eyes boring into him.

"I, um, took French," Rutherford says. Fatimah looks puzzled. "He taught, uh, Latin."

"He grew up then," Avery says. It sounds like a musing, meant possibly for Fatimah or no one at all. Avery has the face of an African king and the voice of one, too. "Some people have all the luck."

If that was meant as sarcasm, it's a very subtle kind.

"Did you know he and Noah were friends?" Fatimah continues. "They were very close. Same interests, same hobbies. They even shared girlfriends."

Rutherford doesn't understand why this sorority girl is telling him this. He thinks Adele might be confused and think Rutherford's main objective is finding out the truth about Noah Czerny's death, when really it's bringing Gansey down. That's not the right way to put it. It's more like, Rutherford knows what he saw and he wants Gansey to admit it, too. More than that, he wants to know why no one else remembers Noah when Rutherford can't seem to forget him.

"You didn't know that, did you? I bet you also didn't know what happened a few months later."

"Fatimah," Avery says quietly.

Fatimah ignores him. "Those girlfriends, they were good friends, too. Supposedly best friends." She turns her laptop around, revealing a newspaper article. "Until the crash, that is."

Rutherford has only a second to look at the screen before Adele walks back in, a brown-skinned girl behind her.

In his peripheral vision, Rutherford can see that her face is a perfect match for the picture on Fatimah's screen.

The heading of that article?

SWEET BRIAR STUDENT KILLED OFF I-64 INTERCHANGE

* * *

 

"We didn't know," M says. "Everyone thought he ran off. After the first few weeks, the police told people to stop looking. I thought he was mad at me, so." She runs a hand through her tightly-curled hair. "And then this happened. God. Can you imagine, the same thing happening to both of us?"

"It's that place," Fatimah says. She sounds bored, a decisive change from earlier. "It does something to people."

"The weirdest things happen in Henrietta," Rutherford agrees.

"Adele's the one who kept hoping," M says. She sounds distant, her words more for herself than anyone else. "The rest of us had given up."

"It would have been easier if she had."

"Fatimah!"

"What? Adele's brother was murdered. I'm not going to beat around the bush just because we have guests. Logan, is it? You know he's dead, don't you?"

"Yes." The answer is obvious. Rutherford is starting to think he's getting dragged into a long-running argument.

"Then there you have it. Noah was murdered and it took that backwards town seven years to realize it and now his killer's gotten away. Seems to be a running pattern, hmm?" This last part is directed at M.

"Silence is wisdom," Leila murmurs.

"Oh, you hush."

Fatimah and Leila lock eyes. Fatimah is the first to look away.

The room is very quiet. Avery is watching Rutherford. Adele is, too.

"Not to be rude but, ah, why am I here?" Rutherford asks.

"Why," M says, flashing bright, white teeth, "you're going to introduce us to Gansey."

* * *

 

Rutherford thinks he might have had his memory erased.

It's a weird thing to say, so he doesn't anymore. But it nags at him, the feeling that there's this chunk of his memory missing, like he knew something once that he doesn't anymore.

He remembers remembering things that didn't happen. He remembers knowing more about Cheng, more about Swan, more, possibly, about, of all people, Joseph Kavinsky. He remembers knowing more truths and fewer uncertainties. The thing he's most certain of, however, is that he once spent time with Swan and knew him in a way he doesn't now.

The problem with being interested in conspiracy theories is, once your brain knows the truth about Disney and Scientology, and the going-ons of world leaders, you can't shut it off. It's the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon on a larger, more paranoid scale. Rutherford can't shake the feeling that he's been neuralyzed, his memory somehow wiped after a revealing association.

It worries him, how little he's able to corroborate this feeling. None of the Vancouver gang remembers him spending undue time with Swan, of ever having even the most passing acquaintance with the guy.

This is why he had to make the video. Because whoever wiped Rutherford's memory the first time might do it again. They might still do it but now the truth is out there, on the Internet, and can never truly be erased.

But the worst part is, Rutherford thinks, when his mind was wiped, something else got put in. Something like Swan being a cliché, a statistic. Someone to be avoided when he is the only person on campus likely to understand Rutherford at all.

* * *

 

At Adele's urging, Rutherford makes a second video.

He wears his mask. He's agreed to help Adele. He has _not_ agreed to give up his anonymity, however non-existent that may be.

In the video, he calls Gansey out. Only this time, instead of talking about Noah, he, at M's behest, brings up Whelk's name.

M says she has a hunch. Not that Whelk was involved in Noah's death- that is already known- but that the last person to see Whelk before he disappeared was Richard Campbell Gansey III.

"Or one of his friends," she adds. "It's just a hunch."

Call him what you will but Rutherford isn't about to ignore a "hunch" from a very alive-looking ghost.

And M does look alive, implausibly so. More than Noah, for certain, who was always a shadowy figure, melancholy and slow.

So Rutherford calls Gansey out and he says Whelk's name and he tells Gansey to message him before he goes to the cops. He wouldn't, he has nothing concrete to tell them, but M says this will get his attention.

She's right.

Gansey replies quickly and perfunctorily, and Rutherford has to imagine it's Parrish on the other side of that screen, typing away.

 _What_ , the message says, _is your silence worth?_

 _A meeting_ , Rutherford replies. _There are parties interested in answers. REAL answers._

* * *

 

He wears his mask to the meeting and he feels like a smacked ass. Adele comes bald-faced. M doesn't come at all.

Gansey brings his entire entourage.

Rutherford is terrified Cheng will recognize him but Cheng stays to the back, strangely placid. It feels wrong- Cheng should be at the forefront, giving instructions, leading the charge. Is this what he's been reduced to in Gansey's presence? Rutherford can barely stomach the sight.

Rutherford says Gansey brought his whole entourage. That's a lie. Lynch, Parrish, Blue Sargent- they are there. Cheng, as well. Noah is nowhere to be found.

"Do you remember me?" Adele asks Gansey.

Rutherford doesn't speak. He doesn't trust the voice modulator to disguise his voice. He's certain any moment now Cheng will recognize his hands, his legs, the shape of his body, and call him out.

"I remember you," Gansey says. "Adele Czerny, if I'm not mistaken."

"You are correct."

"What is it I can do for you, Ms. Czerny?"

"I want to know what your relationship was with my brother." Her eyes shoot to Blue. "You were at his funeral uninvited. You told my mother you had a message from him. It is my belief your mother never had anything to do with it."

"Jane isn't psychic," Gansey says. "That isn't one of her gifts."

Blue scowls at him.

"But your mother is a psychic?"

"Yes," Blue says.

"Then she can find Barrington Whelk for me."

Parrish stiffens. Rutherford takes note of the way all but Cheng look in his direction.

"That...won't be necessary."

"Why not?"

"Barrington Whelk isn't a person who needs to be found."

"I think the police would have something to say about that."

"You miss my meaning. Barrington Whelk isn't a person who _needs to be found_."

"I don't understand."

"Let's just say he's permanently missing."

Adele still doesn't get it. Horribly, Rutherford thinks he does.

"Oh, my God, he's dead, okay?" Bluesnaps. "He's not coming back."

Parrish's face is brittle. Lynch wears a vicious smile.

"Vigilante justice," Cheng says. "Not always a bad thing."

* * *

 

"Thank you," Adele tells him after the others have left. "I don't think I could have gotten the truth without you."

"Do you think you got the truth?" Rutherford replies.

Adele looks wistful. "I've got more than I had before. A year ago, I thought Noah might still be out there."

"In, uh, a way he was."

Adele's expression grows sadder. "Yeah. At least now I know he had friends." She squeezes Rutherford's arm. "Thank you."

Rutherford doesn't have the heart to tell her he was never Noah's friend.


	22. Chapter 22

Proko's bedside is a lonely place. It might be less lonely if Swan frequented it during normal visiting hours but Swan hasn't the time for that.

"Wake up," he urges. " _Wake up_."

Swan's words have no effect. Proko's breathingremains slow and constant.

Swan punches the wall.

* * *

 

He's losing confidence. His words are less powerful than they once were. That can be the only explanation why Proko won't wake, why he won't respond no matter how Swan asks.

What use is having the ability to make anyone do your bidding if you can't use it to accomplish the impossible?

It's a monstrous ability, is what it is. Swan uses it for mundane things- tell me what you saw, what he said, what they're planning to do next- but it can be used for more. Swan barely cried as a baby. He was such a good little child, mama's little girl. A bit forgetful but so obedient.

Until he hit puberty and things began to unravel. His mother began to have blank spots in her memory. She began to act differently, to dote on her child, to understand him perfectly. She spent money they didn't have on new clothes, new toys, new shoes.

How Diego Valquez heard about them, Swan doesn't know. He imagines word got around about the prostitute whose clients gave her double her asking price and always left satisfied. Such a woman should have been able to go far.

One day, a man showed up at the _casa_ door, asking for Swan's mother by name. He ushered her and her child into a sleek car and drove them to a hotel.

The offer was simple: money for Swan's talent.

Swan's mother said no. Swan said yes.

By then, he was stronger than she was.

* * *

 

Swan misses it, the pleasure of matching with someone just as clever, the joy of being submitted to so fully, the interplay of the five of them, Proko and Jiang and Skov always in the middle, always keeping things from getting too violent.

He doesn't expect to have that ever again but if even a portion can be recovered, if Proko can be brought back, if Jiang can be kept from straying...

He wasn't told to fall in with Kavinsky. He did anyway. Every day, Swan regrets that. This pain, this suffering, is because he made a choice.

Intel on Niall Lynch was worth the expense of sending a child north. Four years of intel, then Valquez would start over, try again. Swan isn't the first to receive a Valquez scholarship.

Four years for an education and medical expenses. Swan was eager. He knew no one else would give him such a chance.

Then Niall Lynch went and got himself killed by an unsatisfied customer and, shockingly, the deal was off. Swan had done his job, though, and kept some information for himself. Namely, that Valquez's rivals had reproduced, male children who they had sent to the local school.

When Valquez came to collect his debt, Swan renegotiated the terms of their agreement. Intel on the new dealer of Lynch's goods. Mediation for a new supplier. And information on Seondeok's son.

It wasn't hard to figure out. Chinese-Korean with connections to the Lynch family, with interest in Jiang? He had to be Xi's or Seondeok's.

Before he realized, Swan thought about pushing Jiang towards one or the other, Henry Cheng or Declan Lynch. But Jiang was opposed to the one and Swan felt a flash of jealousy, so strong he could barely believe it, at the thought of what Declan would demand as recompense.

Swan expects Jiang's an informant of his own. Most of Aglionby is in some way or another. The upper crust comes here to forge connections far more than to expand their minds. Everyone, even old money and nouveau riche, is here to get ahead, any way they can. You make it, you burn out, or you become nothing.

Jiang, though. Swan suspects Jiang is playing in the big leagues. Mrs. Skovron's leery of him for one. He's, as Skov would put it, shady as shit for two.

 _Coño_ , Swan hopes it's not Skov Jiang's supposed to be keeping track of. Kavinsky, even Proko, would be acceptable, reasonable. Skov wouldn't be able to take knowing his everyday interactions were all an act. He falls in love too quickly, that boy.

Don't think that when Swan chose not to use Jiang, he gave up. No, he simply exploited his other options.

Chun Woo Kim turned out to be a dead end. He knew nothing, had no connections. His Korean skills were of no use: Cheng wasn't the type to speak his secrets openly.

Swan refused to use Ryang. Cheng2 was too close, too obvious a mole.

Then Swan got paired with Logan Rutherford, Cheng's antsy follower, for an assignment. Oh, he was so easy to convince. Swan barely had to try.

Seondeok's name meant nothing to Rutherford. That secret Cheng kept too close. But there were other things. On his own, Rutherford had already noticed the strangeness of Cheng and begun to question it. Swan almost considered asking for his help for real. Almost.

One of the others, Swan never bothered to find out which, took a disliking to Swan. They planted the idea in Rutherford's head that Swan was no good for him. Soon after, Swan let him go, not so much because he thought Rutherford might resist but because eyes were on him. Valquez hadn't picked Swan for his inconspicuousness.

Besides, Seondeok's name was the biggest secret Cheng had.

* * *

 

"What's his price?" Kavinsky asked after Niall Lynch's death. That's what Swan liked best about Kavinsky: you couldn't fool him. He took the time to find out what his followers were up to, where they came from, what they wanted from life. He was too paranoid to allow just anyone to get close. "I could buy him out."

"No," Swan said, thinking what would happen if he handed Valquez counterfeit bills. "But you could give me something just as useful."

It was a perfect arrangement: Swan would bring in the big names, Valquez's business associates and rivals, and K would sell to them. Half the profits he gaveto Swan.

The money was good. Better were the opportunities Swan amassed, the ears of powerful individuals he accrued.

Then the Fourth came and went, and Swan learned there were limitations to his power.

* * *

 

He should have asked Koh.

God, he's getting soft. There was a time whenSwan wouldn't have thought twice about taking advantage of Koh. It's not like Swan ever made his victims do anything dangerous. And yet, when Ryang's friend sat sniffling in the backseat of Skov's car, Swan patched him up and kept his words neutral. He could have gained something from that interaction and yet he let potential go untapped.

Unless it had been fear that had stopped him. Would having Koh confront Cheng have placed a sense of urgency in Seondeok's son or would it have caused him to call the deal off?

Deal, _ja_. Cheng's playing them like a fiddle, relying on their desperation to further his own interests.

June will be a very bloody month indeed.


	23. Chapter 23

Skov sits in the den, trying to remember what he came here for. The room's been picked clean, what wasn't usable tossed to the side.

"Blake? Are you down there?"

"Yes, Aunt Nadezhda."

"Have you found more?" she asks. Pills, drugs. There were only two uses she ever had for her son and dreaming was one of them.

"There aren't any more." He's been saying this for weeks. The drugs aren't as powerful without K. If you want them to last, you can't take so many. They've run out: Nadezhda of pills and Skov of sympathy.

She grabs his shirt in her spindly, whipcord strong hands and hauls his face up to meet hers. "I know you have more, Blake. Where are you hiding them? Do your little friends have them? Are you using my pills?"

"There aren't any more."

"Liar! Where-"

"Aunt Nadezhda," Skov says calmly, removing himself from her grip. "I'm not hiding anything. The pills are gone."

She slaps him. Skov doesn't flinch. He's used to her temper tantrums.

"You come into my house," she snarls, "steal from me, and expect me to believe you?" She slaps him again. Skov's face turns under her hand but otherwise he just takes it. It's nothing, nothing, nothing. Physical pain is temporary. He would take all this and more if he could turn back time and make it so K never lived a life with her.

She thinks she owns this house? Whose money bought it for her? Whose silence kept her in her cushy lifestyle? Whose drugs have left her addicted?

Skov's not bitter. He's beyond emotion for this woman, this house, this life. K's dead and gone and so are his most fantastic dreams. This woman is broken, this house is empty, this life is a prison cell.

He just needs a couple thousand more, then he'll have enough. Health insurance and money for meds are key. Skov just has to get a little more, wait for Cheng to make good on his promise, and then he can get them all away from here.

"Are you listening to me, boy?!"

Skov isn't.

He's remembered what he came for.

* * *

 

"Jiang!" Cheng says and Jiang cringes.

Cheng hasn't produced results yet. He says he's working on it, that he thinks he's onto a breakthrough, if Jiang could just tell him more about Proko-

Jiang doesn't want to tell Cheng anything.

What Cheng's asking, Jiang can't tell. Kavinsky never explained how he did it. He took a pill, he went to sleep, and he woke up with a dream beside him. That's all Jiang knows. That's all he wants to know.

But Cheng keeps asking. It's a circle. He wants Jiang to join him, be part of his little clique, the one he can't see is fracturing apart because he doesn't value what he has. Jiang's long since decided he will never be part of that. Before, when it wasn't even close to a possibility, Jiang never really had to say it. He did, anyway. After the Fourth, when it was just him, Skov, and Swan clinging together, Proko asleep, and Kavinsky lifeless, he told them all the time.

Only now, the idea's been planted in their minds that Jiang might leave. He's a social animal, why wouldn't he? He deals to Broadway and Rutherford, he asks one of the Lees for last week's notes, he sits and he listens to happy, stupidly drunk Koh. He's allowed to have a life outside of them.

"Be careful," Swan said just yesterday, vodka fumes and dull indifference forming a murky cloud around him. "You don't want to end up like..."

He didn't have to finish that sentence. Jiang knew who he was talking about.

You don't want to end up like K.

You don't want to end up obsessed, putting your worth in someone who won't value you the way you deserve.

You don't want to leave your real friends behind in pursuit of something truer, a connection deeper than the ones you've already forged.

You don't want to end up heartbroken. Or, worse, dead.

Skov gripped Jiang's shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. "You're ours," he said. "As long as you still want to be."

Jiang looked at Skov's hand on his shoulder and then up into Swan's beautiful eyes. "Of course, I still want to be."

 _Do_ you _still want_ _me_ _to be?_

* * *

 

“How many times do I have to fucking tell you?” Skov snarls after cornering Henry in the hall. Swan's with him, looking like he mistook a grapefruit for an orange. “You're upsetting Jiang. Leave. Him. Alone.”

Swan’s sour expression tightens. Henry remembers belatedly that both of them, Swan and Skov, enjoy letting their fists do the talking.

Henry scoffs. "How am I making him feel bad? I'm just trying to stay engaged in his life."

"Well, don't. Every time you talk to him, you remind him that Proko'sstill in a coma," Skov says, making a vague gesture with his hand. "Swan and I aren't down for that. You don't like the way he lives his life, keep it to your goddamn self."

Henry wants to argue, wants to say Jiang could bemore. He stops himself because Swan and Skov don't care. They know Jiang could rise above this. They want to keep him at their level.

"You ever going to let Swan speak for himself?" he asks instead.

Skov glances back over his shoulder. Swan's face is inscrutable.

"Nah. Swan doesn't want to talk to you. He has this thing about not wasting breath on annoying fucks."

The two of them must never talk then.

Henry raises his hands. “Okay, okay, I get it. Verbal warning. No more talking to your buddy. No problemo.”

Swan's lip curls. He still doesn't say anything. Fuck, he's scary. Something about the whole not talking jig makes his height and, wow, broad shoulders more imposing. Not to mention when he folds his arms like that it makes his muscles bulge.

Henry has a feeling Swan is aware of all this and is using it to his advantage.

“No, I really don't think you do. Jiang's expecting you to make good on your promise. Every time you talk to him, you get his hopes up. But you're not any closer to waking Proko up, are you? You haven't got a goddamn clue whether it's even possible.”

"I'm working on it," Henry says, lies. "Things like these aremore complicated than you might think."

Skov _tsks_. "Work harder."

* * *

 

When Henry returns to Litchfield House, it's instantly apparent he's been gone and his court has been awaiting his return. They're arrayed in the living room, sprawled across loveseats and armchairs. There's hurt in their eyes when they turn to look at him but none has the courage to ask where he's been. They know the answer.

Gansey.

Lee-Squared, the chillest of the lot, raises a lazy hand in greeting.

"You want a beer?" Ryang asks. He's perched on the arm of Koh’s chair. "I picked up a six pack on the way home."

Home. This isn't Henry's home and never could be.

He fakes a yawn. "I'm gonna head up early. It’s been a long day."

Their eyes follow him up the stairs. For a moment there, Henry thought he saw disappointment in Koh's expression and jealousy in Cheng2's.

Henry's followers have developed a certain distaste of Gansey Henry doesn't understand. They still like Blue well enough and respect Parrish even if they want nothing to do with him. Lynch, of course, they have neither affection nor respect for.

 _They understand me_ , Henry wants to say when he returns to the house so late it's early and SickSteve's the only one up and looking at him with judgmental eyes.

 _I need this_ , he bites back when he has to explain to Koh why he blew off the final game of the season to go hang out with Gansey.

 _You wouldn't understand_ , he thinks, feeling guilty when Cheng2 looks hurt that he forgot they agreed to go see Rocky Horror together.  _I've never had friends like this before._

SickSteve mutters something about burning bridges and the words worm their way inside him but Henry's got people who will stick with him now and he can't go getting upset because his followers want attention.

It's not, after all, like they're his friends.

* * *

 

Cheng2 is in a snit.

Henry forgot they made plans for Saturday night. He was busy, damnit, actually studying with Parrish because they were both certain he was going to fail his math test if he didn't. Not the worst reason to blow Cheng2 off. Still somewhat shitty.

Only, when Henry tried to explain to Cheng2 that's what he was doing, Cheng2 didn't believe him. He thinks Henry was off gallivanting through the wilderness or something, all willy-nilly, saying, _fuck you,_ _Cheng2, nobody likes you anyway._

"Look I know you're involved in something. It's big, isn't it?" Cheng2 demands. "That's why you won't tell me."

"It's not like th-"

"No," Cheng2 says, cutting him off, "don't tell me it's not like that when it really is. You barely even know him and yet you trust him more than you trust me."

 _Leverage_ , Henry wants to say. _I have leverage._

Cheng2 shakes his head. "You can't even be a decent person and lie about it. You've known him a couple of months. I've known you for years. You know what, go suck up to your precious WASP prince. See if he throws you a bone."

"Oh, fuck you, Broadway."

"No, fuck you, Cheng. Go spend time with your white friends. They're _clearly_ so much better than we are."

Cheng2 storms off.

"I'm allowed to spend time with other people," Henry calls. Cheng2 doesn't even pause, just lifts his middle finger and continues on his way.

* * *

 

Ryang nudges Henry with his foot. Henry groans at the ceiling.

"What's up with you?" Ryang asks. When Henry doesn't reply, he repeats the question to SickSteve.

SickSteve pulls off his headphones long enough to say, "He's moping because Cheng2's mad at him."

"Oh, shit, what did you do this time?" Ryang asks.

"Who’s to say I did anything?" Henry replies. He's draped across the stiff couch, one arm thrown across his forehead for maximum _drame_. He feels altogether like the protagonist of a harlequin novel. "And what do you mean, 'this time'?"

Ryang and SickSteve share a look.

"He's mortally offended by my newfound acquaintance with Gansey."

"Ah," Ryang says. SickSteve rolls his eyes. He adjusts his headphones and goes back to his computer screen.

Henry scowls at them both.

"’Ah’ what?"

"’Ah’ nothing," Ryang says. "Have you ever considered you're an idiot?"

"Rude."

"Also kind of an asshole."

"You're an asshole."

"So mature, Cheng."

Henry sticks his tongue out at him. Ryang shrugs off this extremely clever insult and flops down in an armchair with his phone. Henry elects to ignore him and SickSteve by staring at the ceiling and sighing dramatically.

Most of it's for show but there's a part of Henry that's genuinely confused and hurt by Cheng2's anger. Henry can't confide in him the way he can Gansey and his friends. Secrets like his can't be freely given. They have to be traded one for another and Cheng2 doesn't have those kinds of secrets. Henry can't just drag him into his mother's world, the Lynchs' world, Gansey's and Blue's and Parrish's world. Partially it's about trust and partially....

Partially it's the fact that the last time Cheng2 got close to knowing one of Henry's type of secrets, he ended up in a hospital bed.

It, Henry decided long ago, is in Cheng2's best interest not to know about these kinds of things.

* * *

 

Swan has never had a favorite. If you ask, there was a time when he would have told you it was not K. There was truth to that but he mostly said it to see K bare his teeth in the slightest facsimile of a smile. K did not need Swan's consent to have him. He had it, but it was never necessary.

Swan's affection for his boys has always varied for each one. Skov is a pain but a good one, similar to the seconds after a burn, those instances between the sharp sting and the dull throb. He's vicious and cruel, though not so much as K was, always putting others first even when it's not obvious what he's doing. Skov loves Swan more deeply and fully than the rest and Swan returns as much of that emotion as he can.

Proko, before and after, has him awash in so many emotions Swan can't even begin to sort them all out. They were friends first when almost everyone else was backwards and Swan misses that Proko fiercely.  
There's no going back now, though, and Swan's not rejecting this version, never ever, not even when he's asleep and getting no closer to consciousness but. That doesn't mean he doesn't miss him.

And then there's Jiang.

Jiang stands next to him now, hands encased in gloves and breath misting in the coldair of morning. He asks, full of uncertainty, who Swan's favorite is. He thinks Swan will say Skov, who sets Swan's skin alight with his glances and touches, or Proko, who everyone loved (loves). He doesn't expect Swan to say the truth, that there isn't one.

"Who's yours?" Swan replies. It's only fair. "Proko, no?"

Jiang shrugs and sinks in on himself. "You shouldn't ask me that."

"Fair's fair." Swan pauses, as he often does. Words don't come easy to him. Thoughts do but words mean choosing between lies and shades of honesty, between controlling people because they want to be controlled and forcing people to do his bidding without being able to stop themselves. Silence is always the easiest option. "I know it isn't Skov-" Jiang hunches further into himself. "-so why do you expect to be mine?"

"I don't," Jiang says and _that_ is it. He doesn't expect but he _wants_. Proko was K's and K is Proko's, and Swan is Skov's. These are facts as apparent as the color of the sky.

Swan grabs Jiang's chin, firmly but not cruelly, and forces him to look at him.

"Listen to me, Jiang, because I will not lie to you. I have no preference. I do not prefer Skov to you, nor Proko." He does not add K because Swan will not squander emotion on the dead, not now. He has spent too long doing so. He cannot hope for Proko's return if he is not prepared to shoulder the burden of a life without Kavinsky.

Swan kisses Jiang softly, allowing it to linger, full of the words he doesn't know how to say. He has liked Jiang since the day they met, this short Chinese boy with a mask of indifference covering a wellspring of emotion and years of hurt. How many times has Jiang been asked to leave and stayed with them? Kavinsky didn't make him do that, likely never knew how often the Vancouver crowd's approached him.

"You are all," Swan says, "very precious to me."

* * *

 

Fat Cat jumps on the table.

The cat had a name once but Koh has a habit of naming things by their attributes (hence Henry's Fisker being called the grey car- Koh really needs to get his eyesight checked) and the creature is regularly referred to as Fat Cat or the rather ominous name of The White One. Whatever the cat's original name was, only Mrs. Woo and Lee-Squared seem to remember. Ryang claims there are actually three identical white cats in the neighborhood and his aunt feeds all of them so fuck if he knows that stupid animal's name.

Henry reaches out a hand to touch Fat Cat. It hisses and leaps off the table, accomplishing its mission of thoroughly confusing all humans.

Henry looks around, hoping someone else saw this. No one did.

Rutherford's too busy tearing his hair out to notice feline antics. His family keeps arguing whether he should go Ivy League or HBCU. The poor guy gets calls at all hours of the day from aunts and uncles and cousins telling him why Spelman, XULA, Hampton, Howard (Howard, Howard, Howard) would be better than Yale or Harvard.

Rutherford _thunks_ his head down on the table following his latest call from an aunt in Savannah who tells him HBCUs are great but he's going to pigeonhole himself and Brown would be much more suitable for his goals.

"It's like they're trying to tear me apart," he groans to a sympathetic Henry. They’re sitting around the kitchen table, textbooks out, because senioritis is not an option when Henry’s physics grades are this bad. SickSteve was helping up to an hour ago before he slammed his textbook shut and declared Henry hopeless. It’s a fair assessment. Lee-Squared was drooling into the pages of his English novel by that point and only lifted his head up long enough to put it back down. Henry pokes him in the side with a pencil. Lee-Squared continues his slumber. "My mom's family just keeps saying Harvard. It's the only name they care about."

"It is a good school," Henry says mildly.

Rutherford groans.

"I know. But then everyone else thinks I'm betraying them by not going to an HBCU, like, I dunno, I've gone native going to Aglionby." His eyes are pleading. Henry doesn't know what to tell him. Rutherford's dad is an associate justice on South Carolina’s Supreme Court and a Howard alumnus. His mom is a defense attorney and Singaporean import. Rutherford's fair enough that most people see almond-shaped eyes and write off everything else.

"Where do you want to go?" Henry asks.

"Johns Hopkins," Rutherford says automatically.

"Then go to Johns Hopkins."

It's the simplest, easiest solution but Rutherford looks at Henry like a weight has been lifted, like he was waiting for someone to give him permission to do what he wanted. He smiles and Henry can physically see the exhausted circles under his eyes lessen, the tension bleeding away from his muscles.

Rutherford throws his arms around Henry and it startles Henry, that closeness, but he doesn't push him away.

"Thank you," Rutherford says. "Seriously, man. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Henry replied, patting his back clumsily, enjoying the contact for its rarity. "Don't mess up the hair."

Rutherford laughs.

* * *

 

"Where are you going?" Skov asks as Jiang's making his exit. It's barely midnight but Jiang can't play this game any longer.

"I have an exam tomorrow," he says.

Skov snorts. "Like you're not going to ace it. Stay. Your grades are fine."

Skov and Swan are tangled up together on the bed. Jiang wants so badly to join them. Skov's parents aren't home, the house is empty, and the bed is large and inviting. It would be nice, if Jiang were welcome.

Jiang shakes his head. "Igottago. See you guys tomorrow."

Skov frowns and sits up. Jiang swallows.

"You don't have to go."

"Skov," Swan says quietly.

"Let's not do this," Jiang mutters.

"Do what?" Skov asks, his voice dangerous. "Where are you going, Jiang?"

"Nowhere."

"Then stay."

"I can't." Jiang's throat feels tight.

"Why not?"

Jiang shakes his head.

"Jiang, I said, _why not?_ " Skov's voice isn't simply dangerous. It's deadly.

It takes Jiang a long moment to answer. When he does, it's barely above a whisper. "You like Swan better than me."

"What?"

"I said you like Swan better than me."

"That's not true," Skov says automatically.

"You do. I don't want to come between that. If you want to be together, you should be together. Without me." It hurts but Jiang manages to smile.

"Fuck that," Skov says, swinging his legs out of the bed.

"Skov," Swan warns.

"No, don't stop me, Swan," Skov says, brushing him off. "What the fuck, Jiang. This shit again? Every fucking week with you. Why are you _like_  this?"

Jiang cringes. He can't- it's not him. It's _them_. They don't want him here.

"No," Swan says slowly, considering. "That's not the question, is it? Who made you this way, Jiang? What did they do?"

The corners of Jiang's mouth arc downwards. He doesn't want to talk about this, especially not now. Just admit they don't want him here and let him go. They don't need to know the full truth.

"Jiang," Swan says. "Was it your family?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't want to talk about it?" Skov spits. "We're not even worth telling, are we?" He looks at Jiang in disgust. "You want to leave? Go. I won't stop you. But you better believe it's your decision, not mine."

Jiang clenches and unclenches his fists.

"Well, are you gonna leave or not?"

"Let him be, Skov." Swan places a careful hand on Skov's shoulder.

"No!" Skov looks stricken. He studies Swan's face. "You believe this, too?" He rubs a hand over his face. Sighing, he sits down and gestures for Jiang to come closer, tugging Jiang into his lap when he does. He tucks an errant lock behind Jiang's ear. Jiang can't meet his eyes. "How long have you thought this?" His eyes shift from Swan to Jiang and back again. "I don't- I _love_ you, Swan, _costillo_ , baby, but you have to know I love him, too." His gaze turns to Jiang, who's fiddling with his elbow, unable to look Skov in the face. "It's different but I don't not want you here, Jiang. Fucking hell, you really think that?"

Jiang doesn't know what to say.

"Shit, you really think that." Skov touches Jiang's wrist, lifts his chin with his other hand. Jiang's heart is pounding and he's afraid- afraid this isn't real, afraid Skov doesn't mean it, afraid that in the choice between Swan and Jiang, there is one clear winner. " _Baobei_ , I care about you so much. Do you know what it's like, getting to spend so much time with you? I know all your little tics, the way you brush your teeth, how you like to arrange your pillows, what you look like when you wake up." Skov laughs under his breath. "You look like such a mess sometimes, yet you crawl out of bed and the only thing I can think about is how low your sweatpants sit on your hips. You have the prettiest fucking hips, _baobei_."

Jiang swallows. He remembers those days. He'll get up after a night of hard partying, feeling like a sledgehammer got driven into his skull, and Skov will grab him by the hips and drag him into bed to fuck the pain away. He'll be changing, shirt still trapped around his arms, and Skov will be watching him, smirking and palming himself, just drinking in the sight of Jiang being his awkward self.

Jiang's hair has fallen in his face again. Skov tucks it back into place behind Jiang's ear. That simple movement turns into a fluid caress of Jiang's jaw.

"Jiang, I look at you every goddamn day and think how am I allowed to touch this? I mean look at me, look at you, look at Swan. This-" he makes a circle in the air in front of his face- "isn't the face of a guy who gets to be with either of you."

"You're not that...um."

He wants to say _you're not that ugly. You have really nice eyes, so blue they don't look real._ But it's never been Skov's face that make him attractive and it is in his average looks that Jiang feels secure, in possession of the upper hand even, so Jiang lets his words fall by the wayside.

Skov looks amused. "You can't even finish that sentence. Sweetheart, if anyone shouldn't be part of this, it's me. But I am and you are, and no one's kicking either of us out."

Sweetheart, baby, _costillo. Baobei_. Skov has all these pet names. It's only now that Jiang realizes that, except for a few, they overlap. Proko is sweetheart, lovely,  _кохання_. Swan is called baby, _costillo, _cariño__. Jiang gets _baobei_ , sweetheart, baby.

He gets the same names Proko and Swan get. K got different ones- capo, boss, big man- but _K_ was different. The soft names, the loving ones, were the ones that were the same.

It feels like a revelation.

It feels like Jiang is the biggest idiot on the planet.

The room is pressing in on him. He can't keep doing this. He can't keep lying.

"I'm not who you think I am," Jiang blurts out.

"What do you mean?"

What does he mean? _What does he mean?_

Jiang untangles himself from Skov. He shoves his palms over his eyes and grinds them down until he sees dark purple spots. He rips them away and glares at Skov and Swan. "I'm Cheng, alright? I'm fucking Cheng. Do you know how easy it is to overlook an Asian kid when they go to Aglionby? People notice me but they don't notice _me_. God, you're all so _stupid_."

Swan whistles. "That's right, _cariño_ , let it all out."

"Shut up," Jiang snaps. "This isn't a fucking joke. You think it's coincidence I got roomed with Skov? My dad paid good money for that. He picked my car out. He told me to get close to K. You're over here laughing at Cheng, you don't even know who the fuck you're sleeping with."

"Xia Weiguo's son," Swan says, pronouncing the name carefully, correctly.

"What?" Jiang asks. Then, "Morris."

"Morris," Swan agrees. "You have to vet the candidates before you let them in."

"What," Skov asks, "are you two talking about?"

"Diego Valquez," Swan says, keeping his eyes on Jiang. "He offered me money to come here. A year later, my target was dead." Swan shrugs. "I'm still here."

Jiang had known that or suspected. Something. Swan had been the most leery of Lynch, said peculiar things happened around that family. It was best, he and Proko agreed, to stay away from Ronan Lynch.

Skov works his teeth. He's looking at Jiang- _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ \- and Jiang can't decipher his expression.

"Who," Skov says.

Who what? Who sent Jiang? His father. Who was he after?

"K's mother," Jiang says. "Her father." Boris Stankov has been a thorn in Xia Weiguo's side for years.

"Not me," Skov says. Is it a question? It must be a question. "Not K."

"No." And that is the truth. Jiang's father has no interest in the supernatural or magical. Boris annoys him because the man is prescient and steals contracts from under Xia's nose.

Strangely, Skov smiles. The tension building between them relaxes. " _Baobei_ , come here."

Jiang goes. He's hesitant, uncertain, but he goes. Skov pulls him back into his lap, spreads Jiang's legs so they're bracketing his muscular thighs. "They used you, too, huh, _baobei_?"

Jiang nods haltingly. He wants to apologize but at the same time he can't, can't put into words how out of his control everything was, how the only time he felt alive was when he was with them or Proko or K, can't even explain that he just wanted to make his dad proud even when he knew he never could. This was supposed to be his chance. Jiang did everything right and yet he wasn't even allowed to go home. He never needed a reward. He never needed acknowledgment. He just needed someone to open a door and say, "Welcome home, Jiang. We missed you."

"Do you," Swan asks, hand on Skov's shoulder, black eyes fixed on Jiang's own, "want to make your father pay?"

Jiang does.

"Good," Skov says. "'Cause we're gonna make them."

Swan's stroking the nape of Jiang's neck with his big, cool hand. He's saying something.

"Huh?"

Swan presses a kiss to Jiang's spiky hair.

"I like you," he says. "Very, very much. Do you like me?"

Jiang winces. "You know I do."

"Then there you go." It's easier to accept Swan's words than Skov's. They've had this conversation before. "I like you and you like me. You're not responsible for what other people forced you to do. Understand?" Jiang nods. "Good. I want you here. So does Skov. What more do you need?"

Jiang thinks for a moment. "Weed."

Swan hits him lightly on the back of his head. "Idiot."

"Your idiot."

"Mmm," Swan says, holding Jiang close. "Has a nice ring to it. My idiot. You know what I like better?" Jiang looks up, his eyes meeting Swan's deep, dark brown ones. "Mine. Plain and simple." He flicks Jiang's nose and kisses his temple.

Swan's and Skov's eyes meet.

When they look back at Jiang, they're wearing matching grins.

"Not even kidding about your hips, Jiang," Skov says, eyes flicking to them. "You really think I wouldn't want a piece of this?" He thumbs Jiang's hipbones and pushes Jiang to a standing position before sinking to his knees. "Spread your legs a little for me, honey."

Jiang obliges. Skov unbuttons his slacks and pulls the zipper down. He tugs on Jiang's pants, letting them fall to Jiang's ankles. Skov nips at Jiang's inner thighs, lets his hands run down the outsides.

Swan, standing behind him, kisses Jiang's neck. He sticks three fingers in Jiang's mouth. Jiang sucks on them, getting them good and wet. The second Swan removes them, he's going to start working him open and Jiang wants to be prepared.

He's not wrong. Swan doesn't go in gentle- he never does; gentle is for people who don't like pain and Jiang isn't one of them- and Jiang has to grit his teeth through the burn.

Swan stops, pulls his fingers away, and Jiang feels achingly empty. Confused, he looks over his shoulder at Swan, who lifts his chin in Skov's direction.

"Do you want to fuck him?" Swan asks, voice low. It makes Jiang shiver, the puff of his breath against his neck. "Do you want to show Skov just how much he needs you?"

"Yes," Jiang says. His hand moves to tangle in Skov's hair. Skov raises a questioning eyebrow. " _Yes_."

He takes Skov, bends him over the side of the bed and, with only the smallest amount of prep and lube, slams into him, grateful, so grateful that he gets to do this. Jiang never gets over the rush, the power of this, Skov submitting to him, letting him take control.

Well, mostly take control. Swan's whispering encouragements in Jiang's ear, telling him, _yes, just like that, make sure to keep a good rhythm, don't be afraid to go a little harder, he likes it like that_. Swan doesn't deny the connection between him and Skov but its importance and Jiang's intrusiveness have faded now. It's just Swan in his ear and Skov pretzled beneath him, and the sound of skin hitting skin.

For a second, Jiang loses himself and it's K commanding him, Proko under him. Jiang chokes, forgets to breathe, and then he's over the edge, spilling inside Skov.

He pants, trying to get his breath back, distantly aware of Skov taking himself in hand and Swan chuckling.

Proko. K.

Jiang reaches out for that moment, that memory, but it's already gone. Was it a dream or a memory? There are too many nights Jiang can barely remember.

"Hey," Skov says as Swan's long arms wind around Jiang's torso, "you okay there?"

"Yeah. Just remembered something."

Swan kisses Jiang's neck. "We'll get him back," he says.

"How-?" Jiang didn't think his thoughts were so apparent.

Skov raises his hands above his head, muscles shifting under his skin, and cracks his back. "You think you're the only one who thinks about him? It'll be soon. I know it."

Jiang can't tell who Skov is reassuring: Jiang or himself.

* * *

 

"Do you have plans for after graduation yet?" Lee-Squared asks. He knows Henry's doing a gap year but so far it's been a nebulous, half-formed thought with nary an itinerary.

"I'm going to Venezuela," Henry says. "Travel the world, all that jazz."

"By yourself?" Cheng2 asks.

They're relaxed, draped upon the upholstery in the living room, Mrs. Woo walking by and scolding them every so often, muttering how she should just move back to Fairfax and get away from these spoiled princes. She won't, of course, her existence is a fuck you to a school administration that wanted to overcharge minority students for room and board, and she lives to henpeck the boys that come through her door.

"With Gansey and Blue," Henry says, not really paying attention to the conversation. He's watching cat videos on his phone.

"With who?"

"You know, Dick Gansey? Goes to our school? Kind of a big deal?"

"Yeah, I meant that other person. Did you say Blue? Like the color?"

"I did indeed. Blue Sargent. She and Richard are dating. I think." Henry doesn't actually know. They are very familiar with each other and her lips did kill him but kiss of death aside, he can't be sure. "Oh!" Henry says, snapping his fingers. "You met her. She came to our toga party." He looks around, pleased at having remembered that fact. "What?"

Everyone’s looking at him with bemused expressions.

"You're going to Venezuela with Gansey and his girlfriend?" Lee-Squared asks. There’s a tone there Henry can’t identify.

"We're going lots of places," he answers.

Cheng2 shuts his computer shut with a snap. He shoves it off his lap and stands up much too quickly before stomping off up the stairs. There’s a second of silence and then his door slams, rattling the walls. Mrs. Woo yells about bratty children knocking things off her walls.

"What was that about?" Henry asks.

"He's mad you didn't invite him," SickSteve says, exhaling heavily. He stretches from his sprawl, pulling his arms over his head until his back cracks satisfactorily. He looks at Henry with drowsy eyes. "Seriously, dude, you made plans to travel the world with Dick Gansey without asking any of us first?"

"I didn't think you'd want to go."

"You could have still asked,” SickSteve points out, “if it even occurred to you."

Henry frowns. It didn't.

"That," Lee-Squared says, "is precisely what he's mad about."


	24. Chapter 24

The last few months of the school year go by startlingly fast. Perhaps it is because Henry has his gap year to plan instead of college admissions to worry about that he feels disconnected from his classmates and their troubles. Perhaps it is because Gansey's world is so vastly more interesting.

Whatever it is, time moves fast.

The last week of school might as well be nothing. The professors have lost their pupils' ears. Everyone is abuzz with their plans for the summer and the coming fall, for the lives they are beginning to lead.

June 8th dawns bright and early. Henry awakens in a house aflutter with activity, six boys excited to walk across the stage of the Gladys Francine Mollin Wright Memorial Theater and receive their diplomas. They stop and stare when he comes down the stairs in his graduation robes.

Henry grins. He knows he looks good.

"Gentlemen," he says, clasping his hands together inimitation of Headmaster Child, "it has been a long four years and, yet, a short four. What lasting memories we have made in this place." He pauses to look around Mrs. Woo's front room. "It seems only yesterday we arrived here. Today shall be a day of celebration. For today, you graduate."

"Shut the fuck up, Cheng!" Ryang bellows, hands cupped around his mouth.

Koh throws an arm aroundCheng's shoulders and holds out a fist. "You ready?" he asks.

They bump fists.

"Hell yeah," Henry says. "Let's do this." 

* * *

 

Things go to shit two days later.

Wait- scratch that. Things went to shit months ago. Shit hit the fan two days after graduation.

After the ceremony, they celebrated. They partied, got drunk, some of them a little high, and just generally marked the end of an era. The next day they recovered and did a little more partying. The day after _that_ , they packed their things and moved out of Litchfield House.

It was on this day that shit hit the aforementioned fan.

All Henry wanted to do was explain. Why he couldn't be their friend, why he had never even tried to be. He didn't mean for things to be this way; they were how they had to be.

“I have secrets,” Henry says when he has them gathered in what was once his room. It's empty now, dressers wiped off and mattress bare. Ready, it would seem, for the next boy.

“You think we don't?” Cheng2 interrupts. Henry had meant to expand. Cheng2 doesn't look like he wants to hear anything Henry has to say. His anger makes Henry's chest ache. “Ryang’s been sucking Koh’s dick for the last six months.”

Koh flushes but doesn’t deny it. Ryang, looking deceptively bored, shrugs.

“It's the truth,” he says. “What's yours?”

 _I'm a pawn in a game that involved Kavinsky and Lynch's father. When my mother visits, it's so she can talk to Ronan Lynch's brother. Ronan Lynch, Gansey, Parrish, they're_ something more.

 _I want to be_ something more.

He doesn't trust them with these secrets, he realizes, not even when Koh’s inching closer to Ryang and there's nervousness in both of their eyes. Not when SickSteve raises an eyebrow or Cheng2's expression turns vaguely pitying, as if he already knows Henry won't tell them.

So he tells them about his mother and Lynch's father but he leaves out the part where they're anything but business partners, where it wasn't just Lynch and a rumored product people were after but two budding dreamers and a boy with a robotic bee made of magic. His lies are by omission but they're still lies and his followers know it.

Henry doesn't trust them and they're too obedient to demand the truth.

And so Henry bids farewell to a chapter of his life having made followers and no friends. He helps them pack and hugs them goodbye as they get in their cars to drive away, to home or vacation or school.

Cheng2 dawdles by his car, wanting to say his piece.

“Walk with me,” Henry says. Mrs. Woo does not need to overhear what they will say.

They walk until Henry feels they are far enough away that no one of importance will overhear. He sits down on the curb of the sidewalk, the asphalt from the street hot under his shoes. One thing he won’t miss is the summers.

“Tell me, Cheng2, what did I ever do to you?”

Cheng2 makes an impolite sound.

Henry waits.

"You might as well have written it across the sky," Cheng2 says, sweeping his hand out expansively. "Henry Cheng, too good for his own friends."

"It wasn't like that," Henry says, leaning on his hands.

"Tell me what it was like then." Cheng2 sits down next to him. He leans into Henry's space like Henry's a magnet and he's iron filings. "I know you like your secrets, man, but don't you ever get tired of carrying them? Like, fuck, if I don't deserve to know them, who does?"

Henry quirks a smile. It’s easy to share your secrets with people who have secrets of their own. Cheng2 doesn’t have secrets. Much as Henry wants to lay his soul bare, he can’t place Seondeok’s kingdom in Cheng2’s hands free of leverage. "I can't tell you that."

Cheng2 looks pained. He's not going to press Henry, though, he never does. He stands up and puts his hands in his pockets.

"We might as well go back to my car, then."

"You didn't have anything else you wanted to say?" Henry asks.

Cheng2 chews his lip. "Nah," he says. "There's nothing left to say." There are a million things. Cheng2 just doesn't want to say them.

When they reach Cheng2's car, they embrace. Cheng2 climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door and Henry's mind leaps, desperate for this interaction to continue.

He knocks on the window.

Cheng2 rolls it down. There's something like hope glinting in his eyes.

"Hey," Henry says. "What do I call you now?"

A wide smile unfurls on Cheng2's face.

"Henry," he says. “Broadway, if you prefer.”

"Henry," Henry repeats. It’s scintillating and shocking, thinking of Cheng2 as Henry, as a person by himself, his identity determined not by affiliation but by a name that belongs as much to him as it does Henry Cheng.

Henry Broadway has been his for so long and at the same time has never been. It is only now, as that connection is being ripped from him, that Henry remembers it is there.

That's what he saw in Henry Broadway's eyes, the same dawning horror/realization that this was an end to a story they hadn't fully experienced.

“Do you-” Henry starts and stops himself. “We could have been something, you and I, don’t you think?”

“We could still be,” Henry Broadway says.

“Do you really think so?”

“Yeah.” Henry Broadway takes Henry’s hand in his own. He turns the palm upwards and presses it against his cheek. “But I don’t think you do.”

“What does that mean?”

Henry Broadway laughs and releases Henry’s hand. “Go on your gap year, Cheng. Hit me up when you get back to the States and we’ll see if we can make something of this. Or don’t. It’s up to you.”

Henry thinks he could have loved him once. He thinks, too, that he might have been in love with him for a very long time.

Henry Broadway slips a hand around the back of Henry’s neck and pulls him down to meet his lips. He kisses Henry softly. It’s a kiss without promise, a kiss that says goodbye, not _I’ll see you again._

It’s a bittersweet parting.


	25. Chapter 25

Henry tosses a rock at a bootleg Mitsu and wonders if this is how ancient ruins are made.

This field used to be a place of amusement. Now it looks like the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse. Tall grass, trash. Empty, malformed cars as far as the eye can see. 

In the center, one functional, orange abomination. 

The seats are cracked black vinyl. The floor has the same stains. Even the air smells the same. Henry expects, if they turned the air conditioning on, it would only blow hot air. 

Henry snaps a picture of a gleeful Blue. Gansey turns the key in the ignition. 

The magical car roars to life.

"Do you think it ever breaks down?" Ganseyshouts over the sound of the not-engine.

Henry begins to laugh.

"This is going to be a great trip," he says.

The not-engine is as awful as the one in Gansey's hideous Camaro-monstrosity. And yet, in this field of Kavinsky's failed dreams, it is a perfect thing.

When did Lynch make this? Except for the engine, it's an excellent recreation. Not that Henry has much experience but it's got to be in the top three best forgeries Henry's ever seen. Man, Lynch is good. Assuming Lynch made this.

 _Did_ Lynch make this?

Henry's eyes go wide. 

"I have to go," he says.

"Now?" Blue asks.

"Now," Henry confirms.

* * *

 

Seondeok fulfilled her end of the bargain months ago, practically the same day Henry asked. The first artifact didn't work nor the second. Henry’s spent long afternoons with Lynchto make sure the third does. He's given Lynch time to study the artifact, attempt to duplicate it, and eventually give it back with reluctance.

Henry won't feel guilt over not saving Aurora Lynch. No one ever asked him to and, if they had, he didn't receive the right artifact in time.

But there is one person he can save.

* * *

 

"Come for your ass kicking?" Skov calls with a sneer. He's leaning out the second floor window, eyes hard.

Henry didn't have to go far to find him. It's not Kavinsky's mansion they gather at now but Skov's, two streets over. It's still a mansion. It might as well be the same one.

"I have it," Henrycalls back, pulling the talisman from his pocket. "Your solution."

Skov disappears from the window. Moments later, the front door opens.

How people change.

Once, these boys struck fear in Henry's heart. Once, they disgusted him. Once, they were of no importance in Henry's eyes.

Jiang looks like he hasn't slept in decades. The lines beneath his eyes are deep as valleys. His hair could use a wash. Still, the bruises ringing his eyes aren't actual bruises. Swan looks like someone tried to strangle him. Skov looks terrible as well but, then again, he always does.

Henry gives the artifact to Skov. Jiang snatches it from his hands and looks it over frantically.

“It’ll work?” Swan asks and it’s one of the few times Henry has ever heard him speak.

“It should” is the only reply Henry can give.

They crowd around the artifact, as though looking at it will tell them its efficacy. Henry waits. He can’t leave until they’ve accepted his offering. Seondeok’s name is still on the line. People can’t know her connection to him. She is an enigma, a woman without a family and children.

He doesn’t expect what happens next.

Jiang’s still holding the artifact when his eyes meet Skov’s. Skov pulls Jiang into his arms and Jiang sinks into him, hands sliding up Skov's back, artifact clutched in his right hand, as he presses his cheek against Skov's collarbone. Swan places a broad, comforting hand between Jiang’s shoulder blades. He looks at Skov over Jiang’s crown and Henry _understands_.

It was never shamelessness or seeing how far they could push onlookers. It was never just two of them or bending to Kavinsky’s desires. It was all of them, knit tightly together in a way that didn’t exclude others but didn’t quite let them in, either. Every touch, every glance, every stray bit of laughter had feeling and meaning attached to it.

In the course of a single day, they lost two of their number. For months, Henry's been dangling overtop their heads the possibility of getting one back.

He feels like a simpleton and, even more, like an asshole.

“You’re coming with us,” Skov says, letting go of Jiang and grabbing Henry by the arm. If the artifact doesn’t work, Skov’s not going to let Henry slip away unharmed. Henry wouldn’t but Skov doesn’t believe that. It’s fine, it’s good, Henry’s sure this will work.

They shove him into the backseat of Skov’s RX-7 and Swan sits next to him, tall and vaguely menacing. Jiang’s slumped into the passenger seat, turning the artifact over and over in his hands, cradling it, looking at Skov with such hope it nearly hurts Henry, who has almost no emotion invested in this, to look at. He did his best. He checked. If it doesn’t work, there’s something wrong with Prokopenko.

* * *

 

It works.

Jiang presses the artifact into Prokopenko’s slack grip and, just like with the cows, he begins to stir. He cracks his eyes open, takes a ragged breath, and then the three are on him, clutching him, gasping dry sobs into his chest, relief and happiness and raw pain fluttering around the room because Prokopenko’s asking for Kavinsky and he’s not there.

Henry has to step outside.

If he could punch himself in the face, he would. Maybe Skov will do it for him.

WhenHenry made the bargain, had he even considered fulfilling it? Sure, he contacted Seondeok and asked his mother for help. But had he meant to do what he just did now?

That's not it. The real question is: why is Henry such a piece of shit? Has he always been one?

Swan’s the first to emerge. His face is contorted into a smile, a strange expression for someone normally so ill-tempered.

“You did a good thing,” he tells Henry. He has a deep, lovely voice, accented and strong.

“It was a trade,” Henry says. “I kept my end of the bargain.”

“May I leave now?” he asks. “Or are you not satisfied with what I’ve delivered?”

“How long does it last?” Swan asks, ignoring the questions.

Henry thinks of the cows, how they snorted and snuffled after waking, how they returned to sleep so quickly once the artifact moved more than a few inches away.

“Forever, if he keeps it on him. I recommend making it into a necklace or a bracelet, something hard to lose track of. It’s got this nice hole near the top, shouldn’t be hard to thread a chain through it.”

Swan gives him a strange look.

“I doubt I’d be able to find another one,” Henry explains. “I truly recommend not losing this one.” Henry bites the inside of his lip. "How are you going to break it to him?"

"He already knows."

"That sucks."

Swan gives him another strange look. Swan's looks, when they aren't anger-filled, are nearly impossible to decipher.

"Why do you care?" Swan doesn't say it like he means _fuck off_. He says it like _English is not my mother tongue and I didn't expect this of you._ Not a run-on _whydoyoucare_ but _why do YOU care?_ It is Swan, though, so maybe a little _fuck off_.

"He used to be different," Henry says, hoping Swan knows, hoping he cares. "I liked that person."

"This isn't about Jiang?"

"Why would it be about Jiang?"

Swan cocks his head and gives Henry another of his unfathomable looks.

"Interesting," he says, not bothering to clarify what. "Proko needs to keep this amulet with him at all times, you say?"

"Yes."

Swan slips a chain from around his neck, one that Henry hadn't noticed him wearing. Henry's heartdrops. He recognizes that chain. Swan must have taken it off him, after.

"Will this work?" Swan asks.

"It should," Henry says around the tightness in his throat. He tries not to think of Kavinsky's favorite wearing the gold chain he wore in death, tries not to think about how Swan's probably been wearing it for months.

Swan moves to rejoin the others.

"For whatever it's worth," Swan says, pausing with one hand on the doorframe, "I liked that other person, too."

It takes a second for Henry to realize what Swan's talking about. Once, there was a lanky-haired, long-limbed boy who was never still unless he was at Kavinsky's feet. Henry's not the only one to remember.

"What happened to him?" he asks.

Swan raises an eyebrow. "What happens to all of us in the end. He died."

"Dreams," Swan adds as an afterthought, his face the closest to expressing recognizable emotion as Henry's ever seen, "aren't only dangerous to their dreamers."

* * *

 

The three of them- Skov, Swan, and Jiang- take Prokopenko out of that hospital and quietly disappear. Henry is afraid they won't keep their promise now that they have what they want but they do. No one comes for him or RoboBee. He drives to Miami with Gansey and Blue, a long, slow, meandering road trip, and he buys plane tickets for Caracas, one for him and Blue, and tells Gansey he can meet them there.

He worries but no one comes and he can't be kept in Henrietta anymore and K is a bad fever dream only Henry Broadway remembers. Henry, for the first time, feels safe.

He tries not to think about Prokopenko or what it means that Henry has a dream in his pocket, or that the dreamers who dreamt them are deceased. He doesn't want to think about dream logic. He has RoboBee and Prokopenko has his friends.

And, Henry realizes, for all his secrets, Kavinsky's followers had their own, too. When he asked them to keep his secret, he had kept theirs.

Henry hopes he never has to see any of them again.


	26. Chapter 26

What do you do with a year of freedom? You go to Maracaibo and Marseille, Caracas and Cologne. You take a road trip across the American Midwest in a magical car. You forget your life is a shambles, that the only people you can trust are the ones sitting around a campfire with you.

You go to sleep at night and you dream of your mother finding you and pressing you back into service. You dream of universities rejecting your applications, of your life falling to even more pieces. You dream of Gansey and Blue realizing two is more than enough and you are nothing more than an amusement, a hanger-on.

You dream of Cheng2 and his last words to you. As November turns into December, March into April, you wonder how you were so blind. You wonder if the horrible feeling you get every time Gansey and Blue look at one another, all encompassing, relaxed, blissful, is payback.

All you ever wanted were friends and freedom. You longed for someone to understand you. As July draws to a close, you realize you've found that person. It's you. Your journey of self-discovery is complete.

No one ever mentions when talking about these things that you might not like who you turn out to be.

* * *

 

The first inkling that this was not going to work came early on.

In New Mexico, they sat on the roof of the magic Camaro and Blue told Henry about the prophecy that used to hang over her head like a knife.

If she kissed her true love, he would die.

She sighed, looking up at the starry night sky, arms folded under her head. Her hair had grown long and wild on this trip. Henry wanted to take a comb to it and wrestle it into submission or maybe just touch it once.

"I did wonder how you did it. Poison lips is a new one."

Blue swatted him and he swatted her back, only he leaned too far forward and she leaned too far back and they tumbled off the hood of the car and lay in a groaning, painful heap in the red dirt.

"At least it's over with," Blue said with only a slight tremble to her lips. Blue, Henry sometimes felt, suffers from a depletion of personality. She was an idea more than a person, a practical soul wrapped up in a Manic Pixie Dream Girl body. The things she actually cared about- the environment, women's lib, family- they're all eclipsed by the people around her. All she was was a set of reactions.

Is that what it meant to be a mirror?

She wanted to get out but she didn't know where she wanted to go. She wanted to be different but it was other people who made her stick out. In many ways, she was a lot like Henry.

"Yeah," Henry said to lighten the mood, dispel that existential angst, "now you can kiss him all you want."

Blue shoved him and he laughed.

"I'm serious. I hope I never have to go through that again. Gansey-"

"I get it," Henry said even though Blue didn't, not really. She was not spiteful like that. She didn't know what she was saying, what words existed beneath the ones she had actually spoken.

To Henry, her meaning was clear: Gansey was preeminent. He was Blue's first and foremost, even though she knew him last.

Henry was fine with that, really.

"Let us go see what Richardman is up to," Henry said. Probably still trying start a fire in front of their little shared tent. He said he'd done it before. Henry didn't want to be rude but he was 99% Gansey didn't know what the hell he was doing. Ipso facto, no fire after twenty minutes.

Henry stood up and offered a hand to Blue. She snorted and thrust herself up using her own force.

"Nice," he said.

"You hush," she replied.

It's too bad she had that whole prophecy thing going. Henry enjoyed her company immensely. 

* * *

 

The second came a month later. They had traveled the length of Route 66, seen Midwest state after Midwest state, and were now headed up the Californian coast.

Henry asked Blue (because it was Blue's trip, Blue's fantasy, Blue's  _car_ ) whether she wanted to see Vancouver. He didn't expect her to say no. She did.

She said she wanted to see rainforests and nature preserves, endangered species sanctuaries and the bayous of Louisiana. She wanted to see trees.

“We have trees in Canada.”

“You're from Canada?” she asked and Henry smiled over the hurt.  _Not all connections come easy_ , he reminded himself.  _She doesn't know you and you_ really _don't know her._

"Yes. Vancouver, actually."

"Maybe if we have time," she said.

They didn't have time.

* * *

 

In September, Henry heard the strangest news. An FBI raid in Henrietta. SWAT teams at two mansions in the affluent subdivision, three arrests made. Possessions seized, assets frozen.

What was left, anyhow.

Two million dollars unaccounted for. Not in Swiss accounts or offshore banks. Simply gone the exact same day the feds raided.

Henrietta residents whispered that someone had tipped them off. The money had been swiftly, quietly transferred. Those Eastern Europeans were no fools.

Had it been anyone else, Henry would have said yes, that must be what happened. Nadezhda Kavinsky and the Skovrons, though? That was an inside job.

They were liquidated by their very own son.

(And here's a bit of news Henry didn't hear and wouldn't connect to Skov if he did: on that same day, the one that took down Nadezhda and her co-conspirators, a Chinese politician found himself in the midst of a corruption scandal. Embezzlement of the worst kind. City funds given to a mistress to pay for an apartment, a private car, an education for a secret child overseas.

On the other side of the planet, a Dominican billionaire, a connoisseur of rare items, woke to find a signed check on his bocote nightstand. Above the piece of paper, driven deep into the wood, was a machete. Attached to the handle was a note in elegant cursive:  _Hemos_ _terminado_.  _We're through._

On that day, too, a Ukrainian businessman who had never once visited his son as he lay motionless in the hospital, sat down to dinner at a four star restaurant in Vinnytsia. When he went to pay the bill, his card was declined. So was the second. The third as well. He did get his meal paid for with the help of a gun but by then it was too late: everything he had, everything he'd ever had was gone, legally transferred into the hands of a son he'd forgotten existed.

Nothing happened to a Ukrainian prostitute or a Venezuelan mother of three but then one had choked on her own vomit three years prior and the other had always done the best that she could for her eldest child.)

* * *

 

“I didn't think you'd actually call me up,” Henry Broadway says. He's broader than Henry remembers, more muscular. He rakes his hair away from his face and smiles when he says the words, teasing Henry with them.

“I didn't, either,” Henry admits. He doesn't want to say he spent a year traveling the world, living in sin with Dick Gansey and his girlfriend, coming back only after he realized Gansey’s Great Gay Experience was going to either end awkwardly and amicably or with Henry holding a fractured heart. It had been fun while it lasted, that endeavor of theirs, and now it was over.

“I'm starting here in the fall,” he tells Broadway. The choice was always going to be Ivy League. Columbia seemed the safest bet. Warmer than New England, higher acceptance rate than Yale or Harvard, not Princeton or Penn. Henry wants nothing to do with New Jersey. Since he can't imagine running into SickSteve will go over well, he's avoiding the entirety of Pennsylvania as well. “We might have a few classes together.”

“Uh huh,” Broadway says and Henry longs for the days when he was Cheng2, so obviously, patently, his second-in-command. “Is that why you came? To tell me we might have class together?”

“I owe you an explanation,” Henry says. “About a lot of things. Sit with me?”

Broadway sits.

"This," Henry says, tipping a mechanical insect into Broadway's palm, "is RoboBee."

Broadway looks at him expectantly, doesn't say _I know_ or _duh_ or any of the pithy remarks Henry's come to expect after a year with Blue Sargent.

"My father's company didn't make it," Henry says. "They've been trying to duplicate it for years. No go."

"When I was ten," Henry continues, "I was kidnapped because rivals of my mother were angry she had been allowed to purchase it and they hadn't. Do you remember that Latin teacher that started our senior year?"

"You didn't like him," Broadway says.

"He was the son-in-law of one of the men who took me and held me in a hole for several days." Henry swallows. "I missed a step. RoboBee here can't be duplicated. Do you know why? I'll tell you. Science didn't make it. Magic did."

Henry waits for Broadway to balk, to laugh, to get angry, to say _stop fucking with me_. Broadway strokes a finger down RoboBee's back and says nothing. He waits patiently for Henry to continue.

"There used to be a man who lived in Singers Falls. He sold the most fantastic items, artifacts he would pick up here and there in his travels. RoboBee, he told my mother, was one of them. That," Henry says with deep satisfaction, "was a lie.

"About two years ago, these artifacts, I found out he made them. He would sit down and go to sleep, and when he woke, the things he dreamed would be real. His house, I've been there. It's filled with the strangest things."

Henry laughs. "It is hard to keep the order straight. This man, he died, murdered back in our freshman year. Even though he was still in high school, his oldest son took over the business. That son was Declan Lynch.

"I was supposed to be a cover. When my mother had to do business with Mr. Lynch, she'd pretend she was coming to see me. Made me feel real nice. Hey, Mom, good to see you. Oh, you're here for business? Oh, okay." Henry's smile is unsteady. "That's all the big stuff, I think."

"So you and Declan...?"

Henry shakes his head. "Business. There wasn't anyone else to talk to when weird stuff started happening. He may have wanted something but it was never like that."

"But Gansey was."

"Yes. Gansey and I...were."

"Past tense?"

"Past tense."

Broadway brings RoboBee up to his face to study it. Its wings whir, echoing Henry's happiness and relief. He has finally said it, the big things he's been keeping secret for years. 

"What do you want me to do with this information?" Broadway asks. Henry’s heart dips. The whirring stops.

"Nothing," Henry says. "Anything. I owed you an explanation."

"Is there a reason you couldn't tell me this before? You told Gansey and his girlfriend."

"Since I was little, I have been trained not to say these things. They are my mother's secrets. Her empire rests on her rivals not knowing them."

"You're telling me now." _You told Gansey then_ , his eyes accuse.

"The suppliers are gone. The buyers won't be returning to the valley. My mother no longer holds sway over me. And," Henry says, "that man I was telling you about, he had a son just like him. Ronan." Who is best friends with Gansey. Ah, what a tangled web!

"Suppliers?" Broadway asks and RoboBee's wings fold tight against its back. "There was more than one?"

"Yes," Henry says reluctantly, folding his hands together because it’s something to do. "More than one. There was Niall Lynch pre and post mortem…and there was Joseph Kavinsky."

"I thought Kavinsky dealt drugs."

"He did. Dream drugs. Magic," Henry corrects himself.

"The dragons," Broadway says.

"The dragons," Henry confirms.

"So he did do something to Prokopenko," Broadway murmurs.

"What?" Henry can't have heard that correctly.

"I was right. Kavinsky did something to Prokopenko. That's why he got so mad when I asked."

"I’m sorry, what?"

"You didn't think I told you everything, did you? Kavinsky wasn't that fucking unbalanced." Broadway pets RoboBee and Henry can feel it, the movement through RoboBee's senses. It’s good but it's not enough. He wants...hngh. Things. "I tried to get Prokopenko to tell me what Kavinsky had him on. I said I could get him help if he needed it, he didn't have to stay with K if he didn't want to."

Henry's heart is pounding. Cheng2 lied to him. He laid in that bed, half dead, and _lied to Henry_ about what put him there.

"Oh, don't give me that look. That stuff you gave me? Shoo, I laid in that bed and I tried to figure out what kind of crazy ass home remedy you had me down. I tried for months. And this little guy watched over me the whole time, didn't you?" Broadway croons, bringing RoboBee up to his cheek. Its amber heart glows brightly. Henry's face feels hot. "Even after I was all better, he kept watch. Man, those were some of the shittiest and best days of my life.

"By the way, I got in touch with that Jiang kid after graduation. We got to talking. You know he never liked you overmuch back when we were in school together but seems to me his opinion's changed. Says ye did him a solid, got him that medallion, now Prokopenko's doing alright. The chain broke once but Swan fixed it real fast and he can sleep just fine with it on. They had to keep a rotating watch the first few weeks but now they all sleep easy." Broadway levels Henry with a stern gaze. "Jiang seemed real surprised I didn't know what he was talking 'bout when he said 'at. He reckoned I would, what with me sniffing 'round for answers a coupla years back."

Henry swallows. It's not a good sign when Broadway's accent comes out.

"He told me you made a deal with him and Skov and Swan-"

"Bargain," Henry croaks.

"Bargain," Broadway concedes. "Anyway, he told me ye made this bargain. Ye find a way to wake Prokopenko up and the three of them, Jiang, Skov, and Swan, they don't say nothing 'bout your mom. 'What about his mom?" I ask and Jiang, he says, 'I thought you knew'." Broadway’s eyes glitter. His smile is sharp as a razor’s edge.

"You knew,” Henry says, realization dawning. “All of it, the things I said, you already knew."

"Not all of it. Enough to know you're not lying to me now. Jiang didn't tell me about Kavinsky, just tol' me Prokopenko was in a coma and your magical items could bring him out of it."

Henry feels small and foolish, his words collapsing in on him, his secrets having no purpose. 

"I didn't want to lie to you," he tells Broadway. “You have to know that.”

Broadway holds RoboBee between his hands and looks at it fondly. Almost as if he missed it, this part of Henry Gansey was always uncomfortable with and Blue never realized was part of Henry’s whole.

"I do now,” Broadways says, his accent fading. His anger's still there. He's simply in control of it now. “But, shit, man, you could have tried a little harder to tell me why. The way I saw it, you were being a goddamned _dick_. Fucking ditching me and the boys to go be with Declan Lynch or Gansey or the rest of your white friends."

"You're white," Henry points out.

"Half," Broadway corrects, his expression souring around the word. "And it's not the same. You know that."

Henry does. But it wasn't about internalized racism or self-hatred. Gansey and his court, they were _something more_. Declan, he understood that desire to be _something more_ , to have to live in the shadow of a powerful parent and feel like a neglected, overused tool in their shed.

"I don't hate you for lying to me," Broadway says, pulling Henry out of his self-reflection. "I don't think I even could. God, I had the biggest crush on you in high school. Everyone but you knew about it. Jiang thought we'd gotten together and that's why no one'd heard from you in a while."

"Hard to post pictures when you can't get Wi-Fi," Henry says. It sounds lame, a poor excuse. "I never knew. About you liking me."

"I think I made it kind of obvious the last time we spoke."

"Before that, I mean."

Broadway smiles, soft and secretive.

"What?" Henry asks.

"You were really that oblivious?"

"Yes. It's not like you ever said anything."

"Not to you," Broadway agrees. He's still cradling RoboBee and Henry feels warm all over, enveloped by Broadway's hands. "I think SickSteve got tired of hearing about it. Koh gave the worst advice. Seriously, never listen to that guy. Did you know he and Ryang broke up? Yeah. Couldn't do the long distance thing. Those two are definitely still on booty call terms, though."

Henry feels like he's seventeen again listening to Broadway talk. Only now he doesn't feel that same burning dissatisfaction he used to, the one that said _these people aren't my friends. They will never understand me._ It feels almost as though he's getting back what he missed out on all those years.

"Were they even together that long?"

"Nah. A coupla months, maybe. They couldn’t get their shit together long enough to be a functional couple."

_Do you think we could be a functional couple?_

"I'll tell you what, though, if they ever did, they'd be the happiest goddamn people in the world." Broadway places RoboBee on his leg. The insect makes a figure eight before settling down. "You seriously never noticed? Ryang walked Koh to, like, every class."

"They used to walk back to Koh's dorm together after soccer practice," Henry says.

"Oh, yeah! I forgot about that. They totally did. Oh, my God, Ryang told me he once walked in on Swan and Skov going at it in the locker room. Jiang was just fucking sitting in the corner, faded as hell, watching them."

"What?"

"Chyeah. Jiang's a total voyeur. You didn't know that?"

"I didn't know _you_ knew that. Why do you know that?"

"I got my weed from him on, like, a monthly basis. I've seen all kinds of shit." Broadway grins, nudging Henry with his elbow. "Wanna hear about the time I saw Jiang and Kavinsky-" 

"Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope." Henry stands up, clapping his hands over his ears. "There is not enough bleach in the world for all the things I have seen that quintet do."

"Aw, come on. You probably thought it was hot."

"Nope."

"Not even sometimes?" Broadway laughs at Henry's stricken face. His laughter trails off, leaving a relaxed, happy expression on his face. "God, I missed you, man."

Henry smiles poignantly. It's increasingly apparent he's missed his chance. Here they are reminiscing about experiences they could have shared but didn't because Henry was a liar and terrible friend.

"I missed you, too," he says, wishing the words were an opener and not a closer. Henry came here today because he wanted to revive this connection and give Broadway the truth he never let Cheng2 have. He's done that. He’s given Cheng2 closure. He shouldn’t ask Broadway for more.

Henry checks his watch. After a year with Blue, it seems gaudy and overly expensive, a status symbol of ill-gotten wealth. He loves it. "I should get going," he says, "I can't recall whether I told you, but I'll be starting here in August. I guess, maybe, we'll see each other around?"

“I guess we will,” Broadway says and he’s back to teasing Henry. There’s a smile playing on his lips. Henry isn’t sure of its meaning.

“I thought I'd take you up on that offer,” Henry says, cursing himself even as the words are still tumbling out, one after the other, how could he say that, the offer’s not on the table anymore, why can’t he control _his own mouth._ “If it's still out there.”

He looks at Broadway, expecting- fearing- rejection.

Broadway’s eyes soften. His lips quirk.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, it is.”


	27. Chapter 27

They take it slow, going on a few dates, feeling out what this new relationship means to them. They’re not who they were a year ago and at the same time they very much are.

After everything, they know so many things about each other. It’s easy to slide into a relationship. It’s not so easy repairing the damage Henry caused.

Broadway’s patient, though, says he wants to know everything, what made him mad was the lies, was choosing to make new friends over trusting the old. It hurts but Henry starts to explain, starts to tell Broadway all the things he couldn’t tell Cheng2, to trust not simply that Broadway won’t spill his secrets but that he won’t judge Henry for having them.

When he has his doubts, Henry just has to look at the way Broadway interacts with RoboBee. He treats it as a living thing, an extension of Henry that’s more an aspect than a mechanical being. He talks to it, gives it a gender and a personality, and lets it sit on the back of his hand when he’s reading for class. He’ll pet it, stroke its wire wings, and tell it what a good little bee it is, so industrious, always at work. It makes Henry feel warm inside, those words, that recognition.

Of course, Broadway’s good to Henry, too. There are good morning kisses and goodnight kisses and I-haven’t-seen-you-in-a-couple-of-hours kisses. There’s sitting up together studying and stumbling back to the dorms so late it’s early and cuddling on one of the couches in the student lounge. There’s Broadway driving him to the store because Henry needs toiletries and he still doesn’t like being behind the wheel of a car. There’s Broadway shirtless on the quad tossing a Frisbee, tanned and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, grinning over at Henry where he’s sitting, watching him. There’s watching Broadway and knowing that he’s on display for Henry and no one else.

Most of all, there’s the incredible joy that comes with being put first. Henry hadn’t been the third wheel when he was with Gansey and Blue but it became obvious when spring was drawing to a close and summer was approaching that they were each other’s firsts and he was second.

It was why he’d left.

* * *

 

This is how people are supposed to fall in love: eyes meeting across a shadowy room, the lovely lilt of a stranger's voice, stumbling and falling into a stranger's waiting arms.

This is how Henry fell in love: words spoken quickly and carelessly, long hours spent studying side by side, a pen tapping against soft lips, whispers pouring out the pain and discomfort of a strange past, hands touching a mechanical insect not in wonder or fear but familiarity.

It is Cheng2 lying still, so deathly still in a hospital bed and Henry pleading with his mother to fix his biggest mistake.

It is Henry Broadway shedding his name again and again because his birthright matters less to him than Henry's.

It is a boy with black hair and round eyes smiling at him and saying, "It's nice to meet you, Henry. Where are you from?"


	28. Chapter 28

Winter break sees the Vancouver crowd back home in B.C. Broadway arranges the meetup. This is not the first time the Vancouver band has met up, simply the first time Henry has taken part. An uneasiness settles in Henry's stomach. His followers parted ways on amicable terms with one another but Henry remembers the simmering anger in SickSteve's eyes and the hurt in Koh's.

"You gotta do what you gotta do" were some of the last words Rutherford said to him.

"Whatever makes you happy" were Ryang's.

Lee-Squared had smiled and wished Henry well with an air Henry now recognizes as bridled insincerity.

* * *

 

"You don't have to come," Broadway said a week ago. He was sitting at the table, checking ticket prices on his laptop.

"Do you want me to?" Henry asked.

"It'd be nice." _Yes_.

"Then I'll come."

Henry's regretting that decision.

"It'll be okay," Broadway says, squeezing his hand. "Time heals a lot of things."

 _Not betrayal_ , Henry thinks. _Not choosing a new friend group two months into senior year and pretending you don't know why people are mad. Not calling your friends followers so you don't have to acknowledge you're taking more than you're giving._

"It's gonna be okay," Broadway assures him, squeezing his hand tighter. "You'll see.

It sounds an awful lot like Broadway's reassuring himself and not just Henry.

SickSteve, Broadway tells him, didn't show up at the last few meetups, either. Some people, they fall off the edge of the world when they leave you.

“He'll be there this time,” Broadway says and he seems excited as dread pools in Henry's stomach. “Rutherford got into contact with him a little while ago.” He smiles at Henry and jiggles his leg. “It’ll be a real reunion this time.”

Henry forces a smile. “Yes. It will.”

Henry feels like an awkward asshole right up until Rutherford slaps him on the back and congratulates him on making Broadway a happy man.

Ryang and Koh talk over each other. They’ve been in town for a couple days, having decided a week ago the whole long distance fuckbuddy thing was not going to cut it. After months of Koh’s persistent whining, Ryang’s transferring to Cornell. His mom's pissed and Koh’s on her shitlist. It got so heated Mrs. Woo had to call from her house phone in Henrietta to vouch for Koh’s character before she'd even agree to it.

Rutherford seems stressed but he says his finals grades haven’t all come in yet, don’t worry about it, he’s going to enjoy this week.

SickSteve’s somehow managed to shoot up another two inches, making him well over six foot now. Henry is so used to seeing him sprawled across any available furniture that it’s strange to see him so upright and tall. They exchange a painful hello.

Lee-Squared’s the only one who went back home for school. Never all that skinny to begin with, he’s gained the Freshman Fifteen and then some, and SickSteve. Can’t. Stop. Staring.

For two days, they snipe at each other, argue and bitch, and get all up in each other’s faces. Lee-Squared, usually the most mild-mannered of the group, is pissed SickSteve pulled a vanishing act. SickSteve, fairly laidback himself, all beef with Henry aside, has some issue he can’t seem to work out. Henry hopes it’s not Lee-Squared’s weight because SickSteve has some real assholish tendencies and there’s nothing L2 can do about it now. Whatever SickSteve’s problem is, it’s enough to have the two of them at each other’s throats.

On the third day, when they’ve succeeded in making everyone miserable, SickSteve and Lee-Squared, they…hrmm. There’s no real polite way to say this.

They-

They hook up in a Cactus Club restroom.

* * *

 

“What the  _fuck_  is your problem?” Lee-Squared snaps, locking the restroom door behind him and turning to face Stephen. He feels humiliated, every ounce he’s gained weighing on him. Stephen has been staring all day. Lee-Squared hates that he knows why.

Once upon a time, Stephen had a crush on him. He wanted Lee-Squared and now? Now he’s disgusted that that was ever a thing he wanted.

Fuck it all. Lee-Squared’s gotten enough shit from his sisters about it, he doesn’t need Stephen being a dick, too. 

Not to mention he’s mad for his own reasons.

Stephen left. He dropped off the face of the earth, wouldn’t answer calls or texts, couldn’t even be bothered to get on Facebook or Instagram. They talked the summer after graduation and then he was gone.

In high school, Lee-Squared would have loved to be with Stephen but he wasn't going to push Stephen into anything he was uncomfortable with. It's something Lee-Squared decided long ago, when he realized Southern Baptist wasn't compatible with who Stephen was as a person. He wouldn't push Stephen. He'd wait and he'd hope. If he ended up leaving Henrietta without ever getting to touch Stephen the way they both wanted, so be it.

Stephen needed time. Lee-Squared would give it to him, even if that meant he didn't get to be the person who opened Stephen up. It was fine. Everything was fine.

That is, until Stephen dropped off the face of the earth.

They were talking to each other before fall semester started, the occasional text or Facebook message. Then Stephen stopped using Facebook all of a sudden and wouldn't answer any of Lee-Squared's texts or calls.

Which would have been okay except Lee-Squared got worried. He got scared because Stephen wasn't the person his parents wanted him to be. He was just going to make himself and the woman he ended up with miserable if he kept going like he was and okay, wow, Lee-Squared didn't think emotions could be this strong but he missed his friend. Worse, he was realizing his passiveness meant he'd almost certainly lost the chance to be with someone he genuinely cared about.

Then Stephen showed up at the meetup and Henry was there, too.

Lee-Squared is horribly embarrassed he's gone and gotten fat, a feeling only made worse by Stephen's inability to tear his eyes away. A cruel part of Lee-Squared's mind is saying it's because he's shocked and disgusted, wondering how he could have ever wanted someone who looks like this.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, thinking like that but it hurts, too, knowing that things haven't changed for Stephen, that he's still in that mindset he was a year and a half ago.

Now Lee-Squared feels awful about himself and Stephen's situation. To top this shitsandwich off, something crawled up Stephen's ass and died. For the last two days, they've been bickering and snarling and now, on the third, Lee-Squared can't take it anymore. He confronts Stephen in the bathroom and flings his arms out. He opens his mouth to say, "Yeah, I know. I got fat. What of it?"

What comes out is, "What the  _fuck_ is your problem?"

Stephen's eyes widen. He ducks his head and glances at Lee-Squared, then the floor before taking a deep breath. Lee-Squared braces himself for the worst and then. And then Stephen says, "I think I'm in love with you."

Lee-Squared gapes at him because that was _not_ what he was expecting.

Terror fills Stephen's face. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. The words just came out. I was going to ask if I could kiss you. I don't know what happ-"

"Oh, my God, yes," Lee-Squared says, interrupting him, desperation making him reach out. "Of course, you can, yes."

Then Stephen's lips are on his and they're kissing, Lee-Squared's hands framing Stephen's face. He's so tall now, Lee-Squared has to actually look up to see him. Stephen's hands are all over him, gripping his belly, his love handles, his ass.

"Look at you," Stephen murmurs, so reverential Lee-Squared's chest aches, "you're so beautiful, Donghyun. God, I missed you so much; haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

Lee-Squared gasps, trying to breathe, trying to  _think_. He runs his hands over Stephen's lean chest, the muscles there. He can't believe this is happening, couldn't they have done this before he blew up like a blimp?

Stephen groans and palms his sides. "You look good like this, so good. Fuck, I've been imagining you naked for  _days_."

Lee-Squared flushes. Stephen hoists him up to his waist so that Lee-Squared's legs are spread and his back is pressed against one of the stalls. He has one hand under Lee-Squared's shirt, touching and squeezing, stealing his every breath away with kiss after searing kiss.

Stephen rocks into him, short, shallow thrusts that make Lee-Squared gasp and scrabble for purchase on his shoulders. Stephen laughs, the sound breathless and beautiful.

Lee-Squared feels all of twelve when he comes in his pants. Stephen's doing no better, though, shuddering against him. That shouldn't be hot but it is and Lee-Squared may need to revise some assumptions about himself because bathroom rendezvous and needing a change of underwear are pretty low on the class scale and he just did both.

They sink to the floor, the metal of the stall wall cool against their backs.

Lee-Squared gets the story in halting breaths, sitting on the floor of that Cactus Club restroom. Stephen's parents didn't like the effect Aglionby had on him. It was a good school but they found out about Koh and Ryang and they told him they didn't want him talking to his friends anymore, not when they "didn't share his values". He tried to live like they wanted him to but he hated it, hated having to act like he thought the way they did, that he actually cared whether what Koh and Ryang were doing was wrong. They changed his phone number and deleted all his contacts and started monitoring his Facebook page.

"That's not an excuse," Stephen says, stroking Lee-Squared's jaw, which makes him embarrassed and liable to squirm with how soft and pudgy it feels under Stephen's hand. "I should have told you."

"I get it," Lee-Squared says, touching his wrist. "You don't have to explain anything to me."

Stephen does anyway.

His story, as it comes out, is heartbreaking.

The summer after high school, Stephen's parents sent him to camp. He can't remember what it was called, just what it was: a pray away the gay camp. It didn't work, obviously, but it did teach Stephen an important lesson, one he'd already been halfway to learning: lying was the only way his parents would ever be proud of him.

Lee-Squared squeezes Stephen's hand because he already knew, how could he not?

"There's nothing wrong with you," he tells Stephen.

"Not according to them."

So Stephen lied. He said it was a phase, he was confused, he only liked girls, after all. He even said he met a girl at camp. When he returned home, it was to tears, hugs, and a stern nod.

For months, he kept lying. He could have been out on campus but the fear of word getting back to his parents was overwhelming. And it wasn't like the LGBT club was all that welcoming to bisexuals, anyhow.

Stephen became someone he hated. College was supposed to be about finding yourself and all Stephen could think about was how much happier he had been at Aglionby.

"And I wasn't very happy then," he says, leaning his head back against the stall. "It was you and Koh and Cheng2 I missed, Rutherford and Ryang, too."

"We tried to contact you."

"I know. I figured if I could just stop talking to you guys, I could forget about Cheng. I could get over you." Stephen's gaze is sharp, open, and a touch desperate.

Lee-Squared has known about Stephen's crush for so long, he used to have to remind himself Stephen didn't know he knew. He had to think,  _Donghyun, he was raised in a conservative culture. You can't be sure he knows what he's feeling. If you make a move, there's no telling how he will react._

In the privacy of his mind, Lee-Squared allowed himself to imagine what might happen if he did make a move, even just acknowledge Stephen's burning desire. He imagined being hoisted onto the kitchen counter and kissed within an inch of his life. He imagined those big hands framing his face while Stephen pressed him up against a wall. He imagined being bent over the table in the living room where he did his homework every day and Mrs. Woo balanced her checkbook and being fucked until the only thing holding him up was Stephen's cock in his ass.

He had some very explicit fantasies involving Stephen is what he is saying.

And how could he not? Stephen was always there, helping around the house, wearing threadbare t-shirts more often than not, every line of his long, lean body on display. He'd be outside, mowing the lawn or doing yard work under the brutal Virginia sun, sweat pouring down his face and he had to know, he had to, when Lee-Squared brought him ice water and bit his lip because Stephen was using the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, his abs on perfect display.

Stephen runs the back of his finger down the side of Lee-Squared's face.

"At least you came," Lee-Squared says, "this time."

"Yeah. I never told them about you so they didn't have any reason to say no."

And that's the saddest bit of all. Even here, miles from where they can touch him, Stephen's parents still have him under their control.

"You know, we should probably get out of here."

"Are you saying bathroom heart-to-hearts aren't your thing?" Stephen replies.

"I'm saying my backside's asleep and your phone's gone off three times since we've been in here."

"Has it really?" Stephen asks, getting up. He offers Lee-Squared a hand, who takes it. He wedges a thumb under the waistband of his too tight pants, trying to pull the offending material out from where it's digging into his skin. His face grows hot under Stephen's apparent interest.

Stephen glances at his phone quickly but he's grinning when he does.

"You coming?" Lee-Squared asks.

Stephen looks mellow and happy under the harsh restroom lights. Lee-Squared can't help thinking he's glad it happened here, in a place so different from any of his fantasies that he couldn't possibly mistake it for one.

Stephen touches his waist. When Lee-Squared looks up in question, Stephen kisses his forehead. Lee-Squared's breath hitches. Stephen squeezes his waist before pulling back.

"Lead the way."

* * *

 

The dramatic resolution of Lee-Squared's and SickSteve's apparent sexual tension leaves the group thunderstruck. They pick at their food as the minutes go by, awkward chatter turning into a fierce, quiet debate over who gets to inform their friends their butts are getting left if they don’t hurry the hell up. Henry draws the short straw. He makes the executive decision to text SickSteve and bail.

As they’re leaving, Rutherford puts his head in his hands and bemoans the act that he’s the only straight one in the group. Henry pats his shoulder in mock consolation.

Forty minutes later, SickSteve finally replies:  _lil busy rn_

 _Get it_ , Henry types furiously, pressing send before he remembers that isn’t the type of relationship he and SickSteve have anymore.

If SickSteve thinks this exchange odd, he doesn’t say so. Of course, he’s too caught up in Lee-Squared to say much of anything.

For the rest of the meetup, SickSteve keeps a proprietary hand on Lee-Squared's pudgy hip. He massages Lee-Squared's chubby sides, splays his fingers across the soft swell of his stomach, tugs Lee-Squared into his lap to wrap arms around his plump middle and hook his chin over his shoulder. It's a non-stop orgy of touching, SickSteve letting the others know without a doubt that L2 is his, that this is a thing that's happening.

Lee-Squared flushes the first few times SickSteve touches him, tries to remove SickSteve from his person while whispering that _it's not appropriate, there are people around_ , acquiescing the second SickSteve gives him a slightly hurt, slightly frantic look.

When this happens, Lee-Squared’s so good about it. He doesn’t balk or get weirded out by the intensity. He touches SickSteve’s cheek and makes quiet reassurances.

 _It’s not like that_ , he says,  _it’s just, this is new, and I’m not used to it yet._

SickSteve listens to him, takes in the hand on his cheek and the compassion in Lee-Squared’s eyes. He nods and gives Lee-Squared a little more space, not a lot more but a little, and things are at ease once again.

Henry’s happy for them, really. He just feels a little side-swiped by the whole ordeal.

“It’s been building for a while,” Lee-Squared says when the others ask, making Henry feel better about not noticing. He glances up at SickSteve. “I think.”

SickSteve nods curtly and tugs Lee-Squared closer to his side. Lee-Squared smiles and Henry’s heart melts. The desire when they look at each other is palpable. The way they fit together, it’s like it was meant to be. They know each other.

Things are moving very fast and yet the two of them, they’re the easiest thing in the world to accept.

* * *

 

 

"It's," Koh murmurs in a voice that isn't quite quiet enough, "taking a lot out of SickSteve to be this open."

SickSteve and Lee-Squared have vanished again. They aren’t lost, far from it. They’ll turn up in a half hour or more, giddy with themselves and one another, SickSteve barely letting Lee-Squared out of his sight and Lee-Squared tilting his chin up to demand a kiss every chance he gets.

"If you'll recall," Rutherford chimes in, in a voice gentler and more cautious than Koh has ever been, "he was always very quiet about these sorts of things."

"No wonder," Broadway says, "when it was L2 he was after. His parents have been telling him for years he owes it to them to find a nice girl and give them grandchildren."

SickSteve's parents are devout Southern Baptists, Henry remembers. Ivy League, grandchildren, church, that was all that ever mattered to them. Lee-Squared was raised Buddhist. He’s going to UBC. And, of course, he’s male. SickSteve’s parents won't be pleased.

 _Not,_ Henry thinks unkindly, _that they ever were._

"Fuck," Ryang says, throwing his legs over Koh's, "them. Those assholes can suck my nonexistent dick."

"Real nice," Henry says.

Ryang bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile. "Thanks. Hey, how'd your parents take the news they were getting a son- and not a daughter-in-law?”

Henry doesn’t get his former followers’ insistence on speaking about Broadway and him as if they were engaged. They haven’t been dating nearly long enough for it to even be a possibility.

"They don't care,” he tells Ryang.

"Lucky."

Henry supposes he might be. Then again, he put in four good years of being Seondeok's pretext. Her main competition is dead or run off. Declan's in DC and Ronan's not selling. From his parent's perspective, Henry dating a friend from boarding school isn't noteworthy. It's not like his sexuality was ever a secret.

* * *

 

“It's not so easy,” Lee-Squared says to Henry the one time they find themselves alone, Henry musing quietly that _it's sad, isn't it, SickSteve having to wait so long_ , “for everyone to be upfront with what they want.”

“His parents,“ Henry says, nodding. Internalized homophobia. Has to start somewhere.

“That's part of it. But poison like that sinks its hooks into you and doesn't like to let go.”

If Henry's native language is thought, Lee-Squared's has always been words and the spaces in between.

“If he’d said something..."

“Why? Would it have changed anything? Henry, you had blinders on for three years. You put them there yourself.”

“My mother-“

Lee-Squared drums his fingers against the round curve of his belly. Henry wants to ask how he's so comfortable in his own skin, if he really doesn't mind the excess weight.

It's not a thing people ask one another, though, so he doesn't.

“We can't blame everything on our parents. And you should have realized Stephen shared a room with Matthew Lynch senior year.”

Henry frowns at the sudden turn of conversation. Lee-Squared gives him a bland smile.

“Did you know his social security number's fake? His birth certificate, too.”

Lee-Squared once mentioned, in the offhand way of someone coping with the end stages of trauma, that he was caught in the midst of an immigration raid in Little Korea. He had only been visiting but the customs officials had detained him, too, with his Canadian passport and student visa, until the consulate could be contacted and someone came to release him.

He says that's why he wants to go into immigration reform. Borders are man-made. No person is illegal.

“He doesn't look all that much like his brothers, either.”

“He looks like his mother,” Henry offers.

Lee-Squared's bland smile intensifies, becomes weaponized in its non-partisanship. “From what I’ve heard, it’s coincidence when adoptive children resemble their parents.”

He knows.

Lee-Squared _knows_. Worse, he has known and he holds it against Henry that he had to know without confirmation. It’s been festering, that anger, masked behind Lee-Squared’s characteristic mildness and passivity. SickSteve knows, too, but the affection between him and Henry’s been lost nearly as long as it existed.

Lee-Squared sighs.

“To be honest, I've never understood what Henry sees in you,” he says. Lee-Squared runs a hand over his stomach, that prominent curve, and smiles wryly. “Though I guess you could say the same about me and Stephen.”

“You’re not-“

“What? Fat? I know what I look like. I also know how Stephen feels about me. I’m secure in myself and my relationships. But, then, I haven’t hurt the people I care about.”

Henry's throat bobs.

“Do you hate me?" he asks.

“I probably should,” Lee-Squared replies. “Had you meant to do things the way you did, I almost certainly would.” He sighs again. “The answer to your question is no. I don’t hate you. I dislike what you did. I despise how you did it. I hate that I have to look back on high school and know that I was part of a group that existed solely for your convenience.

“But I don’t hate you. When Henry called me and said you had walked back into his life, I was prepared to. I know you didn’t mean to but you trampled all over that boy’s heart. It was harder for him than it was for the rest of us because at least we knew what you wanted from us.”

“And what was that?”

“The same thing you always wanted: a safeguard. We were your phalanx of model Asian students. No one was going to look too hard at you when you had somewhere you fit in.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know. But you still did it. You used us and then you chose a whole new group of white friends over us. You made Henry believe that being half meant he was never going to be good enough for you. It’s not your fault he wanted more but you should have realized there were ramifications to those kinds of actions. Henry deserved to know the real reason you’d rather be with Gansey than him.”

“I couldn’t tell you guys the tr-”

“I  _know_. I said I understood it wasn’t intentional. That doesn't mean you haven't left a debt you might never repay. If a day comes where Henry wakes up and realizes he doesn’t want to be with the man who made him hate himself for things he couldn’t change, it won’t be you we rally behind. Honestly, if it weren’t for him and Koh, I wouldn’t have come, simply because you would be here. Stephen didn’t want to come and that, too, was partly because of what you did to Henry. You didn’t mean to do what you did but you  _still did it_.”

Henry doesn’t say anything. He thinks about how much of an asshole he was, how much he still is.

Lee-Squared places a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Look, don’t let it get you down. Like I said, it’s not your fault you didn’t know how Henry felt. From my perspective, it was obvious. From yours, not so much.” Lee-Squared’s face softens. “You care about him, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Then do right by him. That’s all any of us really want from you. Do right by Henry and we’ll come around. You’ll see.”

* * *

 

The night before Rutherford heads back to Summerville and Broadway to Pigeon Forge, the group goes out to dinner. They decide on Tuc Craft Kitchen for the atmosphere in addition to the bacon & egg and pork belly cracklings.

SickSteve places the last of his waffles on Lee-Squared's plate. Lee-Squared looks at him gratefully and SickSteve squeezes his chubby side. They smile at each other. Henry won’t say they’re in love but they’re something close.

He tears his eyes away when Koh starts talking about his soccer team. Cornell's not that high in the rankings so he's just playing with a local team but it's fun. God, he can’t wait till Ryang can come to his games. It’s so much better when there’s someone in the stands watching.

"How's your aunt?" Henry asks Ryang since he hasn't yet.

"Good. She's got a new group of boys," Ryang says. "She's run out of nephews, though, so she has to mind her manners now."

"Did she ever?"

Ryang's laughter is genuine. "No, I don't believe she did."

* * *

 

When the Vancouver crowd parts to go back to their respective lives, it’s with the expectation that they will see one another again. This isn’t the end. The dynamics are different, though. Henry’s not in charge anymore. They’re not looking to him for guidance. Now it’s friendship, reassurance, acceptance that they want.

 _This_ , Henry thinks,  _is how you do it. This is how you turn followers into lovers, into friends._

You allow them to get to know you. You show weakness, vulnerability.

You let them in.

* * *

 

Life doesn't end with that revelation.

When they saw each other off, Henry hugged Lee-Squared hard. He hoped Lee-Squared could deal with a sexuality crisis because SickSteve looked to be careening right into one.

Somehow he doesn't and they settle into a rhythm not unlike the one Henry remembers. He keeps up with them on Facebook and Instagram. Lee-Squared doesn't seem to be losing any weight, just keeps piling it on, thighs thicker and belly rounder in every picture, and SickSteve doesn't seem to be caring. They're all over each other, laughing, smiling, just generally over-the-top happy a year in.

The last time they met up, Broadway, in his usual tactlessness, asked SickSteve if he'd always been this much of a chubby chaser.

SickSteve didn't deny it.

In fact, he grinned, rubbed the side of his thumb against his lips, and looked across the room to where Lee-Squared, Rutherford, and Ryang were standing in the midst of a spirited debate. L2 was resting a bottle of Heineken against the side of his now undeniable beer gut, soft cotton shirt clinging to every curve and accentuating the deep hollow of his navel.

SickSteve took all this in with a look of deep satisfaction and said, "'S'a good look on him, right?” He paused, grin turning roguish. “You know what’s a really good look, though? Tied up naked in my bed."

Broadway choked on his beer.

Crude comments aside, Henry has no doubts his friends are very, very happy.

Koh and Ryang stay functionally dysfunctional. Koh keeps changing his plans after graduation and there are nights when Henry and Broadway Skype with Ryang while he bitches for hours. It's obvious he's still gone over Koh, just needs someone to tell him it's alright to be this annoyed at someone and still care about them. Sometimes Koh will hear them and start texting Henry all his grievances about Ryang and it will just be ping after ping after ping.

More than once, Koh has plopped himself down next to Ryang, phone still in hand, muttered “ _Jjagi’_ s such a fucking asshole”, then grabbed Ryang’s face and begun making out with him.

"I think," Henry said the last time it happened, Broadway almost managing to shut his laptop before the tonsil hockey really got underway, "they're happy in their own way."

"You think?" Broadway asked, reaching fingers out in a loose grip Henry recognizes with horror.

"Don't you dare," he said, jumping off the couch and running to the kitchenette where he could at least put the counter between them. "I have very sensitive sides!"

"Oh, I know," Broadway replied, cornering him.

Henry wriggled, trying to keep away, shrieking when Broadway got his fingers in, then laughing uncontrollably because it hurt in the best way possible. He took a page from Koh's book, looping an arm around Broadway's neck and bringing him down for a kiss.

It is, Henry has found, rather hard to tickle someone when your mouth is occupied.

* * *

 

Henry keeps expecting Rutherford to turn up with a pretty girlfriend but he says he's too busy to date. Soon he's going to have to study for his MCATs and apply to medical school. He doesn’t have time for dating. There's enough on his plate without adding a relationship. Really, though, this is where he wants to be. Settling down can wait.

The last time they spoke, Rutherford said, “You and Broadway do your thing, Cheng. I've got my own.”

Then he paused before adding, “Y’all better invite me to the wedding.”

Henry asked him which wedding and Rutherford called him an idiot.

Henry thinks his life would have been a lot easier if people hadn’t been afraid to call him an idiot sooner.

“You weren’t exactly receptive to it before,” Broadway says, “and your life’s turned out pretty okay, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering you have me.”

Yeah, Broadway’s a sap. Good thing Henry’s into that.


	29. Chapter 29

Lee-Squared's sitting up in bed, laptop balanced on his stomach, finishing his senior seminar paper while mulling over job offers. He wants to make sure he and Stephen can find someplace to live together.

The faucet in the bathroom turns off. Stephen comes walking into the bedroom. He climbs onto the bed, cups Lee-Squared's chin, and kisses him deeply.

"What was that for?" Lee-Squared asks with a smile. Stephen shrugs and squeezes the fat undercurve of his belly. Lee-Squared bites his lip. His eyelids flutter. "What do you think about Houston?" he asks.

"Texas? Kind of hot."

"$60,000 starting salary. Burlington, Vermont?"

"That wouldn't be too bad."

"It'd be with Homeland Security," Lee-Squared points out. Not exactly the most uncontroversial organization.

"Are you allowed to work for the US government?"

"Yes."

A yawn splits Stephen's face. He's been working late again. Lee-Squared keeps telling him he doesn't have to pay half the rent or the groceries. Stephen insists, even though his parents stopped paying for school after he told them Lee-Squared and he were together. At this point it's a lost cause. Even though his scholarships only cover part of his tuition, Stephen would rather take a second job than listen to reason.

"You should go to sleep," Lee-Squared tells him.

"Want to stay up with you." Stephen squeezes Lee-Squared's belly again. "We haven't had a chance to really see each other in days." His heavy-lidded gaze sends a thrill of pleasure up Lee-Squared's spine.

Lee-Squared takes a moment to consider. Then he sets his laptop to the side and moves to straddle Stephen.

The first thing to come off is his shirt. Stephen looks at him, taking in his soft chest and round stomach hungrily. It used to embarrass Lee-Squared, how much he'd let himself go. Not anymore.

"That's it," Stephen says, hands roaming up Lee-Squared's sides. Lee-Squared bends down to press their lips together. The kiss is slow and gentle, emphasizing the familiarity of contact, the near perfect way they fit together.

Stephen's hands come to rest on Lee-Squared's ass. He grabs two generous handfuls and groans into Lee-Squared's mouth. "Want to suck you off," he murmurs against Lee-Squared's lips.

Lee-Squared grins. "Have at it."

Stephen pulls back. He kisses down Lee-Squared's chest, keeping his eyes on Lee-Squared's face, watching his expression. Stephen kisses the silvery stretch marks around Lee-Squared's deep belly button. He lays his tongue flat against them, scrapes his teeth along the indents of the newest ones, still red and raw. A million times he's told Lee-Squared he loves them, finds them sexy as hell, would worship them and the rest of his body all day long if he could. Lee-Squared doesn't doubt it.

He _does_ keep meaning to cut back, at least until he's got a job and doesn't have to buy a new interview suit every time he outgrows one. He keeps meaning to but every time he sits down to eat with Stephen, it's _do you want another piece? You can't be full yet, Donghyun. Here, I'll get you some more._

Lee-Squared's not saying Stephen's responsible for all of this. Lee-Squared is more than on board with the weight gain. Nothing gets him hotter than being stuffed to the gills and having his fiancé worship him like this. Stephen's just responsible for, oh, the last twenty pounds or so.

 _Fuck_ , Lee-Squared thinks, smacking his belly just to watch Stephen's eyes go dark and hear him groan, _I'm getting big_.

Stephen waits enrapt for Lee-Squared's gut to stop jiggling before returning to his venerations. He nips at the trail of hair below Lee-Squared's navel, slowly working his way downwards before finally reaching his prize. He looks up to check if Lee-Squared is watching. Then he flashes him a devilish grin and swallows him down.

* * *

 

If you told Lee-Squared four years ago this is where he'd end up, he wouldn't have believed you. Engaged to the hot valedictorian, still in contact with his friends from high school, a hefty seventy pounds overweight- all of it's so different from the vision he had for himself.

And yet Lee-Squared has never been happier. There's not a day that goes by he isn't glad he kept that candle for Stephen burning. He looks in the mirror and likes his reflection, even takes pride in the body he and Stephen built together. Sure, he's not conventionally attractive but he eats when he wants and wears the clothes that he wants. He's spent so much time deliberately starving himself, unhappy with the way he looks and the extra five, ten, twenty pounds he could never seem to get rid of. He's done with that. Now his days are filled with the pleasure of eating as much as he wants whenever he wants, the exquisite pain of being overly full, the thrill of Stephen looking at him with dark desire.

The warm delight of wearing a ring on his left hand.

They haven't set a date yet. They're in no hurry to get married. Stephen asking was primarily symbolic, a means to setting the life they already had on a future path. Marriage doesn't have to be permanent but they want this to be, even if they haven't told many people yet. They might elope, if only to avoid the inevitable misery Stephen's family will bring.

Too, Lee-Squared gets a sick sort of satisfaction from people's reactions to them together, Stephen tall and lean, Lee-Squared shorter and thick in all the societally wrong places. Everyone has an opinion and not many of them are nice. Stephen enjoys telling people they were high school sweethearts. He says, _Donghyun was such a skinny thing back then, he's plumped up nicely, hasn't he?,_ wraps himself around Lee-Squared, and stares people down, daring the naysayers to do anything but stammer their congratulations. Lee-Squared has the feeling if he wore his ring all the time, people would assume he lost his figure after they got together, not before. He enjoys seeing the obvious distaste on their faces when Stephen makes it clear he doesn't think Lee-Squared's figure has suffered any damage at all.

Lee-Squared's secure. He knows, for all Stephen appreciates his weight, it's not just a fetish. They're going to conquer the world together, him and Stephen, spend the rest of their lives correcting its wrongs, fighting against its injustices.

Having great sex.

Lee-Squared throws his head back and sighs happily. He digs his fingers into Stephen's thick, black hair and shifts, trying not to thrust up into his mouth. Stephen bobs his head, sliding up and down Lee-Squared's length.

Looking at him, you would never guess Lee-Squared was his first.

Lee-Squared tugs on Stephen's hair. The warning is not ignored. It's _defied_. Stephen doubles down as Lee-Squared spurts hot seed down his throat.

 _This_ , Lee-Squared thinks as Stephen pulls off and wipes come from his chin, _is the life._


	30. Chapter 30

This is how Henry’s days go now.

He wakes up at 12, 11 on Mondays and Wednesdays, and maybe takes a shower before stumbling to class. He sends rude texts to Broadway about the injustice of early morning classes on hungover college students and gets sarcastically cheerful texts in reply.

He makes his way through morning classes, so glad he doesn’t have to wear a uniform and also kind of not because now he has to do laundry all the time lest people see him wearing the same outfit. He grabs lunch when he can, checks social media, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat. Sends a couple texts Gansey’s way while holding a snarky side conversation with Blue (Henry misses Gansey but _Blue_. He cannot wait to experience her uncouthness in person again.)

He attends afternoon classes because, ugh, professors count attendance as part of your grade, and he does want to learn, he does, but Gen Eds are a waste of his and everyone else’s time. He has to take the 111 to take the 213 to take the 306 and the numbers are almost as much bullshit as the classes. Ah, college! Shaping bright young minds! Forcing Henry to wake up before noon to retake Art History because his AP credits are no longer accepted at this fine institution!

After Gen Eds, it’s back to his dorm or out to get a snack. Around three, his and Broadway’s schedules finally align and they’ll head out to The Steps or to one of the student lounges, somewhere they can spend banal amounts of time together and just enjoy the fact that they’re here, they’re together, they made it. Broadway likes to sling an arm around Henry’s waist and lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and it is just about Henry's favorite thing. Henry will look over and Broadway’s eyes will be so soft, so happy. It hurts a little, realizing that’s a new look for him because Henry didn’t know, didn’t realize this was what Broadway wanted, what he himself did.

Nights they’ll spend together, sometimes at parties, sometimes studying, sometimes just lying in Henry’s bed wrapped around each other. This is still new and exciting and yet it feels old and comforting at the same time, the two of them falling back into the roles they held for years.

On weekends, he stays over at Broadway’s and they stay up till 5 a.m., watching movies, making out, trying to figure out this thing that is sex when you know the other person so well and not at all, sinking into each other and just relishing the fact that this isn’t anonymous, this has meaning, and neither of them ever thought they would get this far.

It's all so good. The only part of Henry's day that is ever unpleasant is the social media.

Declan's Facebook page is little more than lies, a collection of snapshots of the life he wishes he lead. His brothers show up more often than they used to, Ronan lighter and more at ease than Henry remembers, Matthew with his sunny-sweet smile and disposition. Henry wonders if they've told him yet. He doesn't think they have.

Gansey and Blue are frenetic in their happiness and a part of Henry aches for the companionship they shared during that gap year. It's gone, of course, leaving a glowing fondness but nothing more on their side of things.

He misses them sometimes. Henry will think of a clever comment only to find Gansey's not there to hear, Blue's not there to punch him in the shoulder and fume. They are _something more_ and Henry is not. He's just a twenty-something studying American history and business so he has a hope of winning an election one day. He has powerful friends now. It shouldn't be too hard.

One warm spring afternoon, Henry gets a text from Blue asking if he knows why Gansey is in her mothers' backyard asking a tree for its blessing. That starts a group chat with Adam Parrish and Ronan Lynch that is mostly Adam patiently explaining that Gansey's traditional sensibilities have seen him going out there every day for a week. Blue's father has not responded as of yet. Lynch's cackling fills the background.

Henry can't say it's a surprise.

He tries to keep up with them but his ties to Henrietta are weakening. Sure, if he has a son one day he might send him to Aglionby. That’s a long way off, though, and, well, Henry's not got too many friends there anymore.

Broadway hears from Jiang every so often. He's still with Proko, Skov, and Swan. July 4th is hard for them and Proko gets weepy a lot but they're nowhere near the disasters Henry remembers them being. They're making money somehow, have moved out to San Fran, and are just generally persisting. Henry doubts he'll see them at the next school reunion.

He doesn't think he'll go, when it comes up.

When Henry looks back, he thinks he must have been a pretentious brat in high school. Broadway likes to poke him in the temple and say, “Yes, you were and you still are and people love you for it.”

“People,” Henry repeats.

“Me,” Broadway clarifies.

They're Henry and Henry now, people using their surnames to clarify and screwing it up because Henry slips and calls him Cheng2 too many times to count. So they become Cheng1 and Cheng2. Ryang makes them matching t-shirts. Rutherford congratulates them on the wedding.

 _I see_ , SickSteve comments on the picture they post, both of them swimming in their too-big shirts because Ryang's a dumbass and screenprinted them triple XLs, _you went the easy route re: names._

 _Path of least resistance_ , Henry replies.

 _Can't have him be Broadway_ , Broadway adds, _if he can't even sing the opening line to 9 to 5._

 _The fuck_ , Koh asks, _is 9 to 5?_


End file.
